"I jest p'intedly ain't got nary another place to leave 'em, Sister Barrier, nor nary another soul on earth that I could trust 'em with like I could with you," he said wistfully, after he had explained the necessities of the case. "I'm on my way down now to get Venters and bring him home--look at that, will ye!" as the baby made a dash for Judith who stood by the wheel looking up. "They're mighty welcome, Elder Drane," Judith declared warmly, receiving the little fellow in open arms. "I'll be glad to do for 'em." Martin and Lucy were old-fashioned, repressed, timid children, with the pathetic outlook of young persons brought up by a melancholy, ancient hireling. But the baby, glowing-eyed, laughing-mouthed rogue, staggering valiantly on sturdy, emulous legs, taking tribute everywhere with all babyhood's divine audacity, walked straight into her heart. He slept beside her at night, for him she darkened and quieted the house of afternoons, lying down with him to watch his slumbers, to brood with mother fondness upon the round, rosy, small face, and the even, placid breathing. Drane had brought such clothing as they had, but Judith found them ill-provided, and set to work for them at once. Being a capable needlewoman she soon had them apparelled more to her liking, and the labour physicked pain. Sitting in the porch sewing, with the baby tumbling about the floor at her feet and Mart and Lucy building play-houses in the yard under the trees, Judith began dimly to realise that life, somewhere and at some time, might lack all she had so passionately craved, all she so piercingly regretted, and yet hold some peace, some satisfaction. True she was still desolate, robbed, despairing, yet with the children to tend there were hours when she almost lost sight of her own sorrow, in the sweet compulsion of doing for them. Jim Cal shook his head over these arrangements. "Looks like to me ef I was a widower with chaps, trying to wed a fine lookin', upheaded gal like Jude, I'd a' kep' the little 'uns out of her sight as much as I could, 'stid of fetchin' 'em right to her. Hit seems now as though she muched them greatly, but she's sartin shore to find out what a sight o' trouble chaps makes, and ain't any woman wantin' more work than she's 'bleeged to have." Lacking active concerns of his own, James Calhoun was always greatly interested in those of the persons about him. Judith's doings, on account of her reticence, beauty and high spirit, proved a theme of unending, mild interest. "Jude," he opened out one day as he sat on the edge of the porch while his cousin was busy with some sewing for her little visitors, "did ye hear 'bout Lace Rountree?" Judith never moved her eyes from her work. "I know they's sech a person," she said evenly, "if that's what you mean."