"Father's too sick for me to leave--I've got to run the farm," was Launcelot's simple statement of the bitter fact. "I am always trying to do great things," mourned Judy, with a sigh for the Cause of Thomas the Downtrodden, from which the romance seemed to have fled, "but they just fizzle out." "Don't be discouraged. You'll learn to look before you leap yet, Judy," and Launcelot laughed, his own troubles forgotten in his interest in hers. "What are you going to take up for a life work?" asked Judy, remembering Ruskin. "I am going to be a lawyer," announced Launcelot, promptly, "and a good one like the Judge. My grandfather was a Judge, too, but father chose business, and failed because he wasn't fitted for it, and that's why we are on the farm, now." "I'm going to be an artist," announced Judy, toploftically, "and paint wonderful pictures." But Launcelot looked at her doubtfully. "I'll bet you won't," he said with decision. "I'll bet you won't paint pictures and be an artist." "Why not?" "Because you'll get married, and--" Judy shrugged an impatient shoulder. "I am never going to marry," she declared. "Why not?" "Because I want my own way," said wilful Judy. "Oh," said "bossy" Launcelot. The waves were twinkling in the gold of the morning sun when the tired party sighted the beach below The Breakers. Judy standing up in the boat with her dark hair blowing around her spied a little waiting group. "There's Anne--dear Anne--and, why, Launcelot, there's a dog." "Is there?" "Yes, and--and--a man--" "Yes." Launcelot's voice was calm, but his hand on the tiller trembled. She turned on him her startled eyes. "Do you know who it is?" she demanded. "Yes." "Who?" "Look and see." The man on the beach was gazing straight out across the bay, and in the clearness of the morning air, Judy made out his features, the pale dark face, the waving hair. She clutched Launcelot's arm. "Who is it?" she demanded, looking as if she had seen a spirit. "Who is it, Launcelot?" And then Launcelot gave a shout that woke Tommy. "It's, oh, _who_ do you think it is, Judy Jameson?" And Judy whispered with a white face, "It looks like--my father. Is it really--my father--Launcelot?" and Launcelot let the tiller go, and caught hold of her hands, and said: "It really is, it really and truly is, Judy Jameson." Judy never knew how the boat reached the wharf, nor how she came to be in her father's arms. But she knew that she should never be happier this side of heaven than she was when he held her close and murmured in her ear, "My own daughter, my own dear little girl." It was an excited group that circled around them--Perkins and Launcelot, and the dog, Terry, and last but not least, Anne, red-eyed and dishevelled. "Oh, Judy, Judy," she sobbed, when at last Judy came down to earth and beamed on her. "We thought you were drowned, and I have cried all night."