s to
coquette with the friendship of John Cather.

"Ah, Judy," I pleaded, "leave un have his way!"

She picked at the moss.

"Will ye not, maid?"

"I'm afraid!" she whispered in my ear.

"An' you'd stop for that!" I chided, not knowing what she meant: as
how should a lad?

It seemed she would.

"'Tis an unkind thing," says I, "t' treat John Cather so. He've been
good," says I, "t' _you_, Judy."

"Dannie!" she wailed.

"Don't, Dannie!" Cather entreated.

"I'd have ye listen, Judy," said I, in earnest, kind reproach, "t'
what John Cather says. I'd have ye heed his words. I'd have ye care
for him." Being then a lad, unsophisticated in the wayward,
mercilessly selfish passion of love, ignorant of the unmitigated
savagery of the thing, I said more than that, in my folly. "I'd have
ye love John Cather," says I, "as ye love me." 'Tis a curious thing to
look back upon. That I should snarl the threads of our destinies! 'Tis
an innocency hard to credit. But yet John Cather and I had no
sensitive intuition to warn us. How should we--being men? 'Twas for
Judith to perceive the inevitable catastrophe; 'twas for the maid, not
misled by reason, schooled by feeling into the very perfection of
wisdom, to control and direct the smouldering passion of John Cather
and me in the way she would, according to the power God gives, in
infinite understanding of the hearts of men, to a maid to wield. "I'd
have ye love John Cather," says I, "as ye love me." It may be that a
lad loves his friend more than any other. "I'd have ye t' know, Judy,"
says I, gently, "that John Cather's my friend. I'd have ye t' know--"

"Dannie," Cather interrupted, putting an affectionate hand on my
shoulder, "you don't know what you're saying."

Judith turned.

"I do, John Cather," says I. "I knows full well."

Judith's eyes, grown all at once wide and grave, looked with wonder
into mine. I was made uneasy--and cocked my head, in bewilderment and
alarm. 'Twas a glance that searched me deep. What was this? And why
the warning? There was more than warning. 'Twas pain I found in
Judith's great, blue eyes. What had grieved her? 'Twas reproach,
too--and a flash of doubt. I could not read the riddle of it. Indeed,
my heart began to beat in sheer fright, for the reproach and doubt
vanished, even as I stared, and I confronted a sparkling anger. But
presently, as often happened with that maid, tears flushed her eyes,
and the long-lashed lids fell, like a curt