"It's nothing bad, Perkins," he said, and Judy, as she faced him, saw that his eyes were bright with some new hope. "It's nothing bad. But I've had a letter--a strange, strange letter, Perkins--and I must go on a journey to-night--a journey to the north--to Newfoundland, Perkins." CHAPTER XVII MOODS AND MODELS Anne and Judy were almost overcome by the mystery of the Judge's departure. Not a word could they get out of the reticent Perkins, however, as to the reasons for the sudden flitting, and the Judge had simply said when pressed with questions: "Important business, my dear, which may result rather pleasantly for you. Mrs. Adams will take care of you and Anne while I am gone, which I hope won't be long." The day that he left it rained, and the day after, and the day after that, and on the fourth day, when the sea was gray and the sky was gray and the world seemed blotted out by the blinding torrents, Judy, who had been pacing through the house like a caged wild thing, came into the library, and found Anne curled up in the window-seat with a book. "I came down here with all sorts of good resolutions," she said, fiercely, as she stood by the window, looking out, "but if this rain doesn't stop, I shall do something desperate. I hate to be shut in." Anne did not look up. She was reading a book breathlessly, and not until Judy had jerked it out of her hand and had flung it across the room did she come to herself with a little cry. "I shall do something desperate," reiterated Judy, stormily. "Do you hear, Anne?" Anne smiled up at her--a preoccupied smile. "Oh, Judy," she said, still seeing the visions conjured up by her book. "Oh, Judy, you ought to read this--" "You know I don't like to read, Anne." Judy's tone was irritable. "You would like this," said Anne, gently, as she drew Judy down beside her. "It's about the sea." She opened the despised book at the place where she had been reading when Judy plucked it out of her hand. "Listen." Judy did listen, but with her sullen eyes staring out of the window and her shoulders hunched up aggressively. When Anne stopped however, she said: "Go on," and when the chapter was finished, she asked, "Who wrote that?" "Robert Louis Stevenson. He was a lovely man, and he wrote lovely books, and he died, and they buried him in Samoa on the top of a mountain. He wrote some verses called 'Requiem.' I think you would like them, Judy." "What are they?" Anne quoted softly, her sweet little voice deep with feeling, and her blue eyes dark with emotion. "'Under the wide and stormy sky, Dig the grave and let me lie, Glad did I live and gladly die, And I laid me down with a will. "'This be the verse you grave for me: "Here he lies where he longed to be; Home is the sailor--home from the sea, And the hunter home from the hill."'"