"I'm tired," said Judy, in a stifled voice, and Anne, who had followed
her, saw that she was crying.

"I know," the Judge's voice was gentle, "I know, but I won't keep you
long. Come."

Judy went reluctantly, and he led the way to the garden bench.

It was very still out there in the garden--just the splash of the
little fountain, and the drone of lazy insects. The moon hung low, a
golden disk above the distant line of dark hills.

"Judy," began the Judge, "do you know, my dear, that you are very like
your grandmother?"

Judy looked at him, surprised at the turn the conversation was taking.
"Am I?" she 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!"