"Do I love pigs?" asked Miss Mills with a start. "You ridiculous child, what nonsense you are talking!"

"But do you?" repeated Babs. "It is most important for Judy and me to know; for we love them, poor things--we think they're awfully nice."

Miss Mills laughed in the kind of manner which always irritated Judy.

"I am sorry not to be able to join your very peculiar hero-worship, my dears," she said. "I can't say that I am attached to the pig."

"Then it is very wrong of you," said Judy, her eyes flashing, "when you think of all the poor pig does for you."

"Of all the poor pig does for me! What next?"

"You wouldn't be the woman you are but for the pig," said Judy. "Don't you eat him every day of your life for breakfast? You wouldn't be as strong as you are but for the poor pig, and the least you can do is to love him. I don't suppose he likes being killed to oblige you."

Judy's great eyes were flashing, and her little sensitive mouth was quivering.

Miss Mills gave her a non-comprehending glance. She could not in the least fathom the child's queer passionate nature. Injustice of all sorts preyed upon Judy; she could make herself morbid on almost any theme, and a gloomy picture now filled her little soul. The animals were giving up their lives for the human race, and the human race did not even give them affection in return.

"Is that letter very funny?" asked Babs.

"It is not funny, but it is interesting to me."

"Do you love the person who wrote it to you?"

Miss Mills let the sheet of closely-written paper fall upon her lap; her eyes gazed into the child's serene and wise little face. Something impelled her to say words which she knew could not be understood.

"I hate the person who wrote that letter more than anyone else in all the world," she exclaimed.

There was a passionate ring in her thin voice. The emotion which filled her voice and shone out of her eyes gave pathos to her commonplace face. Babs began to pull a flower to pieces. She had never conjugated the verb to hate, and did not know in the least what it meant; but Judy looked at her governess with new interest.

"Why do you get letters from the person you hate so much?" she asked.

"Don't ask any more questions," replied Miss Mills. She folded up the sheet of paper, slipped it into its envelope, replaced the envelope in her pocket, and started to her feet. "Let us continue our walk," she said. "We shall reach the woods in five minutes if we are quick."

"But," said Judy, as they went down the path across the field, "I should like to know, Miss Mills, why you get letters from a person you hate."

"When little girls ask troublesome questions they must not expect them to be answered," responded Miss Mills.

Judy was silent. The faint, passing interest she had experienced died out of her face, and the rather sulky, unsatisfied expression returned to it.

Miss Mills, whose heart was very full of something, spoke again, more to herself than to the children.

"If there is one bigger mistake than another," she said, "it is the mistake of being fond of any one. Oh, how silly girls are when they get engaged to be married!"

"What's that?" asked Babs.

"I know," said Judy, who was again all curiosity and interest. "I'll tell you another time about it, Babs. Miss Hicks in the village was engaged, and she had a wedding in the summer. I'll tell you all about it, Babs, if you ask me when we are going to bed to-night. Please, Miss Mills, why is it dreadful to be engaged to be married?"

"Your troubles begin then," said Miss Mills. "Oh, don't talk to me about it, children. May you never understand what I am suffering! Oh, the fickleness of some people! The promises that are made only to be broken! You trust a person, and you are ever so happy; and then you find that you have made a great, big mistake, and you are miserable."

"Is that you, Miss Mills? Are you the miserable person?" asked Judy.

"No, no, child! I didn't say it was me. I wasn't talking of anyone in particular, and I shouldn't even have said what I did. Forget it, Judy--forget it, Babs. Come, let us collect the ferns."

"Suppose we find some white heather," said Babs eagerly.

"And much that's worth, too," replied Miss Mills. "I found a piece last summer. I gave----" She sighed, and the corners of her mouth drooped. She looked as if she were going to cry.