GOOD OMENS.
And so the shadows fall apart,
And so the west winds play;
And all the windows of my heart
I open to the day.
--WHITTIER.
Mildred Anstruther was paying a visit at the Rectory on the day that
Rivers and Judy walked in. Rivers was a very striking-looking man, and
all the Rectory people were so devoured with curiosity about him, and so
interested in all he said and did--in his reasons for coming down to
Little Staunton, and in his remarks about the Quentyns--that Judy's own
return to the family circle passed into utter insignificance. She was
there--they had none of them expected her, and as she chose to come
back, she was welcome of course.
It was a lovely day, and the whole party were out in the garden, when
Rivers and his little charge entered their midst.
Judy wore her green cloak and pretty black shady hat. There was a new
sort of picturesqueness about her, which Aunt Marjorie noticed in an
abstracted way; she put it down to "the polish which even a short
residence in the metropolis always gives;" she had not the faintest idea
that it was due to the dignity which a noble action can inspire.
Judy greeted everyone quite in her old manner, and was rather glad that
she was not fussed over, but taken quite as a matter-of-course.
Aunt Marjorie was too anxious about the cream for Rivers' tea to give
serious thoughts to anyone else just then. But when the young man had
departed to catch the return train to London, then a few questions were
asked of Judy.
"I thought you were going to live with Hilda," said Mildred, looking
curiously at the child.
Mildred was standing a little apart from the others, and Judy, whose
face was pale, for the suffering of her self-sacrifice was still causing
her heart to ache horribly, looked full at her, and said in a low voice:
"That turned out to be a mistake, so I've come home."
"You brave little darling!" said Mildred, understanding everything like
a flash; she stooped and kissed Judy on her forehead.
Babs came rushing into the midst of the group.
"Judy, Judy, I want you," she cried.
"What is it?" asked Judy.
"There's a butterfly coming out of a chrysalis in the butterfly-case;
come quick--he's moving his tail backward and forward--he'll soon be
out; come quick and see him."
The dull look left Judy's eyes; they sparkled with a sudden, swift,
childish joy.
She took Babs' hand, and they rushed away, right round to the back of
the house where the butterfly-case stood.
"Let's take him out, poor darling," she said; "let's put him on a leaf,
and watch him as he gets out of his prison."
Her eyes grew brighter and brighter; she bent low to watch the
resurrection which was going on.
After all the chrysalis and the butterfly were emblems. They were good
omens to Judy that love and hope were not dead.
THE END.