A Young Mutineer by L.T. Meade

Thou wert mine -- all mine! . -- Where has summer fled? Sun forgets to shine, Clouds are overhead; Blows a chilling blast, Tells my frightened heart That the hour at last Comes when we must part. Hurrying moments, stay, Leave us yet alone! -- All the world grows gray, Love, when thou art flown.

Judy's soul swelled within her when she heard the music still sending volumes of sound out of the little church. Miss Mills had not spoken all the way home. Babs had chattered without a moment's intermission. Her conversation had been entirely about birds and beasts and creeping things. Judy had replied with rather less interest than usual. She was so anxious to hurry home, so fearful of being too late. Now it was all right. Hilda was still in the church, and, delightful -- more than delightful -- the discordant notes of the choir had ceased, and only the delicious sounds of the organ were borne on the breeze.