There was, too, in summer, a tangled wilderness of
roses--hundred-leaved ones, and little yellow ones, and crimson ones
whose tall bushes topped the hedge, and great white ones that clung
lovingly to the old stone wall that was the western barrier of the
garden. And there was a bed of myrtle, and another one of verbenas,
over which the butterflies hovered on hot summer days, and another of
pansies, and along the wall great clumps of valley lilies. And at the
end of the path was a lilac bush that the Judge's wife had planted in
the first days of bridal happiness.

For years it had been a lonely garden, as lonely as the old Judge's
heart--for fifteen years, ever since the death of his wife, and the
departure of his only son to sail the seas, the darkened windows of the
old house had cast a shadow on the garden, a shadow that had fallen
upon the Judge as he had walked there night after night in solitude.

But this evening as he sat on the bench under the lilac bush, a broad
bar of golden light shone down upon the gay cupid and the sleeping
flowers, and from the open window came the lilt of girlish laughter and
the rippling strain of the "Spring Song," as Judy's fingers touched the
keys of the little piano lightly.

Presently the music changed to a wild dashing strain.

"It's a Spanish dance," Judy explained to Anne. She was swaying back
and forth, keeping time with her body to the melodies that tinkled from
her fingers.

"I can dance it, too," she added.