"I'm not encouraging him," said Judy, but there was a wicked sparkle in her eyes. Tommy saw it and swaggered a little. He had returned home in the spirit of the prodigal son. He was ready to be forgiven. To eat of the fatted calf--if he should be so lucky. If not, to eat humble pie. The sight of the familiar fields and roads had even brought tears to his eyes. But now--! "A fellow can't be tied to a little old place like this all his life," he said, toploftically, "you can't expect it, Anne." "I don't expect it," said little Anne, quietly, "but if you had seen your mother after you ran away, Tommy--" At that Tommy lowered his head. "I know--" he stammered, huskily, "poor little mother." "Tell me about her," he said. And now he turned his back on the dark young lady on the hay. But Launcelot's voice broke in on Anne's story. He came in all wet and dripping. "How's Judy?" he began, then stopped and whistled. "Hello," he exclaimed, "hello, Bobby Shafto." "Oh, I say," said Tommy, very red. "I thought you were on the high seas by now," said Launcelot. "Well, I wanted to be," said Tommy, resentfully. "I am glad you're back. We have missed you awfully, old chap," and Launcelot slapped him on the shoulder in hearty greeting. "How is Judy?" he asked. "Better, thank you," said the young lady in the corner. "Tommy was a tonic and came just in time." "Well, I am glad you found some kind of tonic. Perkins didn't have a thing but some mustard and red pepper, and I was feeling for you if we had to dose you with either of those." Judy started to laugh, but stopped suddenly. "I forgot," she said, "I am mad at you--" "Oh, no, you're not." "But I am--" "Because I carried you across the field when you didn't want me to?" "Yes." "My child," advised Launcelot, "don't be silly." "Oh," raged Judy, and turned her back to him. Launcelot looked down at her for a moment. "You know that tree where you fainted?" he asked. A little shrug of Judy's shoulder was the only answer. "Well, it was struck by lightning before I got back--" "Really--?" Judy was facing him now, breathless with interest. "Really, Judy." His face was very grave. "Oh, oh," she wailed, softly, "oh, and I might have been there--" "Yes." She shivered and sat up. Her wet hair, half braided, trailed its dark length over her shoulder. Her eyes were big, and her face was white. "What a baby I was," she said, nervously, "what a baby, Launcelot--not to see the danger--" "You trust to your Uncle Launcelot, next time, little girl, and don't get fussy," was the big boy's way of stopping her thanks. "I will," she promised, and the smile she gave him meant more than the words. "It has stopped raining," said Anne from the door. The cool spring air blew across the fields softly, bringing with it the fresh smell of the sodden earth and the scent of the wet pines.