"If there is one bigger mistake than another," she said, "it is the mistake of being fond of any one. Oh, how silly girls are when they get engaged to be married!" "What's that?" asked Babs. "I know," said Judy, who was again all curiosity and interest. "I'll tell you another time about it, Babs. Miss Hicks in the village was engaged, and she had a wedding in the summer. I'll tell you all about it, Babs, if you ask me when we are going to bed to-night. Please, Miss Mills, why is it dreadful to be engaged to be married?" "Your troubles begin then," said Miss Mills. "Oh, don't talk to me about it, children. May you never understand what I am suffering! Oh, the fickleness of some people! The promises that are made only to be broken! You trust a person, and you are ever so happy; and then you find that you have made a great, big mistake, and you are miserable." "Is that you, Miss Mills? Are you the miserable person?" asked Judy. "No, no, child! I didn't say it was me. I wasn't talking of anyone in particular, and I shouldn't even have said what I did. Forget it, Judy--forget it, Babs. Come, let us collect the ferns." "Suppose we find some white heather," said Babs eagerly. "And much that's worth, too," replied Miss Mills. "I found a piece last summer. I gave----" She sighed, and the corners of her mouth drooped. She looked as if she were going to cry. CHAPTER II. THE PEOPLE WHO GET MARRIED. Thou wert mine--all mine!... --Where has summer fled? Sun forgets to shine, Clouds are overhead; Blows a chilling blast, Tells my frightened heart That the hour at last Comes when we must part. Hurrying moments, stay, Leave us yet alone!-- All the world grows gray, Love, when thou art flown. Judy's soul swelled within her when she heard the music still sending volumes of sound out of the little church. Miss Mills had not spoken all the way home. Babs had chattered without a moment's intermission. Her conversation had been entirely about birds and beasts and creeping things. Judy had replied with rather less interest than usual. She was so anxious to hurry home, so fearful of being too late. Now it was all right. Hilda was still in the church, and, delightful--more than delightful--the discordant notes of the choir had ceased, and only the delicious sounds of the organ were borne on the breeze. "Hilda is in the church," said Judy, pulling her governess by her sleeve. "Good-by, Miss Mills; good-by, Babs." She rushed away, scarcely heeding her governess's voice as it called after her to be sure to be back at the Rectory in time for tea. The church doors were still open, but the young man in the cricketing-flannels, who had stood in the porch when Judy had started on her walk, was no longer to be seen. The little girl stole into the quiet church on tip-toe, crept up to her sister Hilda's side, and lying down on the floor, laid her head on her sister's white dress.