"I wish Judy could have known of this," said Pat softly. "Dear old Judy ... she always wanted it."
"Judy knew it would come to pass. She sent me this. I got it in Japan after months of delay. I would have started for Silver Bush at the moment if I could have, but it was impossible to arrange. And anyway ... I thought I might have a better chance if I waited a decent interval."
Hilary had taken a cheap crumpled envelope from his pocket book and extracted a sheet of bluelined paper.
"Dear Jingle," Judy had printed on it in faint, straggling letters, "She has give David Kirk the air. I'm thinking youd have a good chance if youd come back.
Judy Plum."
"Dear, dear old Judy," said Pat. "She must have written that on her dying bed ... look how feeble some of the letters are ... and got somebody to smuggle it out to the mail-box for her."
"Judy knew that would bring me back from the dead," said Hilary with pardonable exaggeration. "She died knowing it. And, Pat," he added quickly, sensing that she was too near tears for a betrothal hour, "will you make soup for me like Judy's when we're married?"
Just as they had admitted they must really return to Swallowfield a grey shadow leaped over the paling, poised for a moment on Judy's slab and then skimmed away.
"Oh, there's Bold-and-Bad," cried Pat. "I must catch him and take him back. He's too old to be left out o'nights."
"This evening belongs to me," said Hilary firmly. "I won't let you go chasing cats ... not even Bold-and-Bad. He'll follow us back without any chasing. I've found something I once thought I'd lost forever and I won't be cheated out of a single moment."
The old graveyard heard the most charming sound in the world ... the low yielding laugh of a girl held prisoner by her lover.
THE END