ress.

And so it came about that Fairfax church had that morning two
sensations. In the first place Anne Batcheller came in late for the
only time in her life, and in the second place, when the service was
half over, a slender, distinguished maiden in a violet-wreathed white
hat, slipped along the aisle, flashing a glance at Anne as she passed,
and smiling at the delighted Judge as she entered the pew.

She fixed her eyes on the minister--and straightway forgot Anne and the
Judge and Fairfax, for the minister was reading the 107th Psalm, and
the words that fell on Judy's ears were pregnant with meaning to this
daughter of a sailor--"They that go down to the sea in ships--"

Dr. Grennell was a plain man, a man of rugged exterior--but he was a
man of spiritual power--and he knew his subject. His father had been a
sea-captain, and back of that were generations of Newfoundland
fishermen--men who went out in the glory of the morning to be lost in
the mists of the evening--men who worked while women wept--men to whom
this Psalm had been the song of hope--women to whom it had been the
song of comforting.

To Judy the sea meant her father. It had taken him away, it would
bring him back some day, and was not this man saying it, as he ended
his sermon, "He bringeth them into their desired haven--"?

Dr. Grennell had never seen Judy, but he knew the tragedy in the
Judge's life, and as she listened to him, Judy's face told him who she
was.

She went straight up to him after church.

"I am Judy Jameson," she said, "and I want to tell you how much I liked
the sermon."

The doctor looked down into her moved young face. "I am the son of a
sailor," he said, "and I love the sea--"

"I love it--" she said, with a catch of her breath, "and it is not
cruel--is it?"

"No--" he began. But with a man of his fiber the truth must out; "not
always," he amended, and took her hands in his, "not always--"

"And men do come back," she said, eagerly; "the one you told about in
your sermon--"

He saw the hope he had raised. "Yes, men do come back--but not always,
Judy."

Her lip quivered. "Let me believe it," she pleaded, and in that
moment, Judy's face foreshadowed the earnestness of the woman she was
to be. "Let me believe that my father will come some day--"

"Indeed, I will," said the doctor, and there was a mist in his eyes as
he clasped her hand, "and you must let me be your friend, Judith, as I
was your father's."

"