e asked.

"Yes," continued the Judge, "and especially in two things." His eyes
were fixed dreamily on a bed of tall lilies that shone pale in the half
light.

"What things?" Judy was interested. She had expected a lecture, but
this did not sound like one.

"In your love of flowers--and in your temper--my dear."

Judy's head went up haughtily. "Grandfather!"

"You don't probably call it temper. But your grandmother did, and she
conquered hers--and I am going to tell you how she did it, because I
know she would want me to tell you, Judy."

Judy sat sulkily as far from her grandfather as she could get. Her
hands were clasped around her knees and she stared out over the dusky
garden, wide-eyed, and it must be confessed a little obstinate. Judy
knew she had faults, but if the truth must be told, she was a little
proud of her temper--"I have an awful temper," she had confessed on
several occasions, and when meek admirers had murmured, "How dreadful,"
she had tossed her head and had said, "But I can't help it, you know,
all of my family have had tempers," and as Judy's family was known to
be aristocratic and exclusive, her more plebeian friends had envied and
had tried to emulate her, generally with disastrous results.

She was not quite sure that she wanted to conquer it. It often gave
her what she wanted, and that was something.

"The first time I had a taste of your grandmother's temper," the Judge
related, "we had had an argument about a gown. We had been invited to
a great dinner at the Governor's, and she had nothing to wear. She
took me to the shop to see the stuff she wanted. It was heavy blue
satin with pink roses all over it, and there was real lace to trim it
with. It was beautiful and I wanted her to have it, but when they
named the price it was more than I could pay--I was a poor lawyer in
those days, Judy--so I said we would think it over, and we went home.
All the way there your grandmother was very quiet and very white, but
when we reached home and I tried to explain, she simply would not
listen. She would not go to the Governor's, she said, unless she could
have that gown. You can imagine the embarrassment it caused me--it was
as much as my career was worth to stay away from that dinner, and I
couldn't go without her.

"'I won't go. I won't go,' she said over and over again, and when I
had coaxed and coaxed to no effect, I sat down and looked at her
helplessly, and troubled as I was, I