a good man, in spite of what
you say about yourself; and I would trust them. And it was very fine in
you to talk as you did when we were tearing up that hill a moment ago."

Crittenden turned with a start of surprise.

"Oh," he said, with unaffected carelessness. "You didn't seem to be very
nervous."

"I trusted you."

Crittenden had stopped to pull the self-opening gate, and he drove
almost at a slow walk through the pasture toward Judith's home. The sun
was reddening through the trees now. The whole earth was moist and
fragrant, and the larks were singing their last songs for that happy
day. Judith was quite serious now.

"Do you know, I was glad to hear you say that you had got over your old
feeling for me. I feel so relieved. I have always felt so responsible
for your happiness, but I don't now, and it is _such_ a relief. Now you
will go ahead and marry some lovely girl and you will be happy and I
shall be happier--seeing it and knowing it."

Crittenden shook his head.

"No," he said, "something seems to have gone out of me, never to come
back."

There was nobody in sight to open the yard gate, and Crittenden drove to
the stiles, where he helped Judith out and climbed back into his buggy.

Judith turned in surprise. "Aren't you coming in?"

"I'm afraid I haven't time."

"Oh, yes, you have."

A negro boy was running from the kitchen.

"Hitch Mr. Crittenden's horse," she said, and Crittenden climbed out
obediently and followed her to the porch, but she did not sit down
outside. She went on into the parlour and threw open the window to let
the last sunlight in, and sat by it looking at the west.

For a moment Crittenden watched her. He never realized before how much
simple physical beauty she had, nor did he realize the significance of
the fact that never until now had he observed it. She had been a spirit
before; now she was a woman as well. But he did note that if he could
have learned only from Judith, he would never have known that he even
had wrists or eyes until that day; and yet he was curiously unstirred by
the subtle change in her. He was busied with his own memories.

"And I know it can never come back," he said, and he went on thinking as
he looked at her. "I wonder if you can know what it is to have somebody
such a part of your life that you never hear a noble strain of music,
never read a noble line of poetry, never catch a high mood from nature,
nor from your own best thoughts--that yo