The crown must be won for Heaven, dear, In the battle-field of life: My child, though thy foes are strong and tried, He loveth the weak and small; The Angels of Heaven are on thy side, And God is over all! --ADELAIDE PROCTOR. Judy's life was sunshine, and therefore Judy got quickly well; she was like the birds and the flowers--give her sunshine enough, and she would sing like the birds and bloom like the flowers. Hilda was her sun, and now she was always basking herself in the beloved presence. Her cup of happiness was full, and such contentment reigned in her little heart that no moment was dull to her, and time never hung heavy on her hands. Hilda was just as sweet and loving as of old, and really, now that she lived in the house with him, Jasper, her _bete noire_, the awful big brother-in-law who had come and stolen her treasure away, seemed to make but little difference in her life; it was almost nicer being with Hilda in London than being with Hilda at the old Rectory--she seemed to get more undivided attention from her sister than when that sister was the Rector's right hand in his busy life, and when Judy had to learn lessons with Babs, and walk with stupid, non-comprehending Miss Mills. Now Judy learned rapidly, for Hilda was her teacher; and how delightful that lunch was which was also Judy's early dinner, when she and her sister sat _tete-a-tete_, and talked always, always of old times. If visitors dropped in at tea-time Judy could afford, in her generous happiness, to give them a little of her fascinating Hilda's attention, for so often now there were heavenly evenings to follow, when that _bete noire_ the brother-in-law was not coming home, and the two sisters could be alone. Judy loved the cozy sort of tea-dinners which began those evenings, and then the long talk afterward in the lengthening twilight, when she sat on a stool at Hilda's feet, with her head pressed up against Hilda's arm, and her happy heart beating close to the other heart, which was all her world. On those evenings too Hilda came upstairs and tucked her up in her white bed, and said, _Now I lay me down to sleep_ to her, just as she used in the old nursery at home, after mother died. It was an understood thing, although no words had passed between the two--it was an understood thing, that on the evenings when Jasper was at home, Hilda should not come upstairs to Judy. This seemed a perfectly fair and just arrangement, they were both in full accord on the subject; but Judy could not help loving those days when she might have her sister all to herself the best. On the morning after Rivers had dined in Philippa Terrace, as Jasper was preparing to go out as usual, Hilda ran into the little hall to give him a last word; she left the door of the dining room ajar, which was not her invariable custom, and Judy, sitting at the breakfast table, found herself in the position of an eavesdropper.