riving to the play by her husband's side; she
saw the pretty dress she meant to wear; in her mind was reflected as in
a picture the image of her fair self, and the image also of the man who
was still in her heart lover as well as husband. No matter for the
present cloud, he was still her lover. She wondered if he would give her
another tender glance, and if, as they sat side by side when the curtain
was up and the actors were moving about on the stage, he would touch her
hand with his, and show her in that way that she was forgiven.

"If he would only understand that I must keep both my vows," she
murmured, "if I could only get him to really comprehend that much, much
as I love my Judy, I would rather be alone with him--that is, I would
rather be alone with him, if it makes him unhappy to have my sweet
little Judy in the house. But how happy she is since I brought her home;
how gay her voice sounds now."

"I said you were a mutineer," laughed Rivers. "I know by your manner
that you will never put up with the inevitable."

"Don't!" said Judy; Hilda was looking at a lovely landscape, a friend
she knew came up and spoke to her. "Don't!" said Judy, turning and
looking full at the young man; her eyes were grave, her childish face
grew suddenly white and drawn. "Perhaps I am going to give up being a
mutineer," she murmured.

CHAPTER XVI.

A LITTLE GIRL AND A LITTLE CROSS.

Love that hath us in the net,
Can he pass, and we forget?
Many suns arise and set,
Many a chance the years beget.
Love the gift is love the debt.
Even so.

Love is hurt with jar and fret.
Love is made a vague regret.
Eyes with idle tears are wet.
Idle habit links us yet,
What is love? for we forget:
Ah, no! no!

--TENNYSON.

Mrs. Quentyns and Judy enjoyed their lunch with Rivers. They went into
the Park afterward for a short time, and then Hilda, remembering that
the hours were flying, and that she must be dressed and ready to receive
her husband before six that evening, bade the young man a hasty good-by,
and drove home with Judy.

"I am so glad you are going to the play," said the little girl. "Why
don't you often go--why don't you constantly go out in the evening?"

"If I did, Judy, what a dull time you'd have."

"You're quite mistaken, Hilda; I shouldn't be dull at all. You don't
know how I like story-books, and Susan is such a