"I am going to Judy's party," she declared, "and I am going to get mother to write a note to Miss Mary." Many were the notes that went to Miss Mary that day. All sorts of excuses were given by the ambitious mothers, who would not have had their offspring miss the opportunity of seeing the inside of the most exclusive house in Fairfax for all the school entertainments in the world! And Miss Mary! She had invited the school board and a half-dozen pedagogues from neighboring districts. She had trained the children until they were letter perfect. She had drilled them in their physical exercises until they moved like machines, and now at the eleventh hour they were fluttering away from her like a flock of unruly birds, and she recognized at once that Judy had championed Anne's cause, and that in her she had an adversary to be feared. In vain she expostulated with the mothers. "Saturday isn't a regular school-day, you know, Miss Mary," said Mrs. Morrison, sitting down ponderously to argue the question with the teacher, "and of course the Judge couldn't know that it would interfere with your plans." Miss Mary was convinced that the Judge _did_ know, but she didn't quite dare to argue the question with him. She was conscious that she had been over-severe, and that the Judge, who believed in justice first, last, and all the time, would not uphold her. And so the plans for the party went on. "We will have games," said Judy, "and we won't have anything old like 'Cinderella.' Has anybody got an idea?" She and Anne and Launcelot were in the Judge's garden, and it was Thursday evening, and there wasn't a great deal of time to get ready for Saturday's festivities. "We might have some one read poems, and have living pictures to illustrate them," suggested Anne. "What poems?" asked Judy, not quite sure that she liked the idea. "There are some lovely things in Tennyson," said the little girl; "there's the Sleeping Beauty for one. You could be the Beauty, Judy, and Launcelot could be the prince--it would be just lovely--we could have little Jimmie Jones for the page, and Nannie and Amelia for ladies-in-waiting, and you could be asleep on the couch, while some one read: "Year after year unto her feet, She lying on her couch alone, Across the purple coverlet, The maiden's jet-black hair has grown." Anne quoted with ease, for the little blue and gold volume in her bookcase had yielded up its treasures to her, and she knew the loved verses better than she knew her "Mother Goose." "Oh," Judy's eyes were alight, "how lovely that is--I never read that, Anne." "Well, you hate books, you know," and Anne dimpled at her retort. "I shouldn't hate that kind," and Judy resolved that she would know more about that princess. "And we could have the arrival of the prince, and the awakening, and their departure: