in sea and one on shore,
To one thing constant never.
Then sigh not so,
But let them go ..."

"Yes, that's the right thing to do," said Judy, turning round and fixing
her bright eyes on Babs.

"How funny you look," said Babs; "_you_ ought to go to bed."

"Come, Barbara, what is this about?" said Aunt Marjorie's voice. "You
up still--what can Miss Mills be thinking of? Now, little girls, it is
nine o'clock, and you must both go away. Good-night, Babs dear;
good-night, Judy."

"Mayn't I say good-night to Hilda?" whispered Judy.

"No, she's busy; run away this moment. Judy, if you question me I shall
have to appeal to your father. Now, my loves, go."

The little girls left the room, Babs complacently enough, Judy
unwillingly. Babs was sleepy, and was very glad to lay her little head
on her white pillow; but sleep was very far away from Judy's eyes.

The little girls' bedroom was over a portion of the drawing room. They
could hear the waves of the music and the light conversation and the gay
laughter as they lay in their cots. The sounds soon mingled with Babs'
dreams, but Judy felt more restless and less sleepy each moment.

Miss Mills had entire care of the children. She dressed them and
undressed them as well as taught them. She had left them now for the
night. Miss Mills at this moment was writing an indignant letter in
reply to the one which had so excited her feelings this morning. Her
schoolroom was far away. Judy knew that she was safe. If she got out of
bed, no one would hear her. In her little white night-dress she stole
across the moonlit floor and crept up to the window. She softly
unfastened the hasp and flung the window open. She could see down into
the garden, and could almost hear the words spoken in the drawing room.
Two figures had stepped out of the conservatory and side by side were
walking across the silvered lawn.

Judy's heart beat with great thumps--one of these people was her sister
Hilda, the other was Jasper Quentyns. They walked side by side, keeping
close to one another. Their movements were very slow, they were talking
almost in whispers. Hilda's head only reached to Jasper's shoulder; he
was bending down over her. Presently he took her hand. Judy felt as if
she should scream.

"He's a horrid, horrid, wicked man," she said under her breath; "he's a
deceiver. 'Men were deceivers ever.' I know what he is. Oh, what shall I
do? what shall I do? Oh, Hilda, oh, Hil