ain, upon her grief:
whereupon she turned away, troubled, to peer at the sea, breaking far
below, and would not look at me again. We watched her, John Cather and
I, for an anxious space, while she sat brooding disconsolate at the
edge of the cliff, a sweep of cloudless sky beyond. The slender,
sweetly childish figure--with the tawny hair, I recall, all aglow with
sunlight--filled the little world of our thought and vision. There was
a patch of moss and rock, the green and gray of our land--there was
Judith--there was an infinitude of blue space. John Cather's glance
was frankly warm; 'twas a glance proceeding from clear, brave,
guileless eyes--springing from a limpid soul within. It caressed the
maid, in a fashion, thinks I, most brotherly. My heart warmed to the
man; and I wondered that Judith should be unkind to him who was our
friend.

'Twas a mystery.

"You will not listen, Judith?" he asked. "'Tis a very pretty thing I
want to say."

Judith shook her head.

A flash of amusement crossed his face. "Please do!" he coaxed.

"No!"

"I'm quite proud of it," says he, with a laugh in his fine eyes. He
leaned forward a little, and made as if to touch her, but withdrew his
hand. "I did not know," says he, "that I was so clever. I have it all
ready. I have every word in place. I'd like to say it--for my own
pleasure, if not for yours. I think it would be a pity to let the
pretty words waste themselves unsaid. I--I--hope you'll listen.
I--I--really hope you will. And you will not?"

"No!" she cried, sharply. "No, no!"

"Why not?"

"No!" she repeated; and she slipped her hand into mine, and hid them
both snugly in the folds of her gown, where John Cather could not see.
"God wouldn't like it, John Cather," says she, her little teeth all
bare, her eyes aflash with indignation, her long fingers so closely
entwined with mine that I wondered. "He wouldn't _'low_ it," says she,
"an He knowed."

I looked at John Cather in vague alarm.

[5] This Sir Harry Airworthy, K.C.M.G., I must forthwith explain, was
that distinguished colonial statesman whose retirement to
the quiet and bizarre enjoyments of life was so sincerely
deplored at the time. His taste for the picturesque characters
of our coast was discriminating and insatiable. 'Twas no
wonder, then, that he delighted in my uncle, whose familiar
companion he was in St. John's. I never knew him, never
clapped eyes on him, that