"Why don't you get up a picnic to-morrow?" he suggested, as Perkins
passed the fingerbowls--a rite which always tried Anne's timid,
inexperienced soul, as did the mysteries of the half-dozen spoons and
forks that had stretched out on each side of her plate at the beginning
of the meal.

"You could get some of Anne's friends to join you," went on the Judge,
"and I'll let you have the three-seated wagon and Perkins; and Mary can
pack a lunch."

Judy raised two calm eyes from a scrutiny of the table-cloth.

"I hate picnics," she said.

Then as the Judge, with a disappointed look on his kind old face,
pushed back his chair, Judy rose and trailed languidly through the
dining-room and out into the hall.

Anne started to follow, but the hurt look on the Judge's face was too
much for her tender heart, and as she reached the door she turned and
came back.

"I think a picnic would be lovely," she said, a little surprised at her
own interference in the matter, "and--and--let's plan it, anyhow, and
Judy will have a good time when she gets there."

"Do you really think she will?" said the Judge, with the light coming
into his eyes.