the day's work."

My tutor laughed.

"Too much study for the brain," says my uncle, sympathetically, his
eye on the bottle. "I 'low, parson, if I was you I'd turn in."

Cather was unfailingly obedient.

"Dannie," says my uncle, with reviving interest, "have he gone
above?"

"He have," says I.

"Take a look," he whispered, "t' see that Judy's stowed away beyond
hearin'."

I would step into the hall--where was no nightgowned figure listening
on the stair--to reassure him.

"Dannie," says he, wickedly gleeful, "how's the bottle?"

I would hold it up to the lamp and rattle its contents. "'Tis still
stout, sir," says I. "'Tis a wonderful bottle."

"Stout!" cries he, delighted. "Very good."

"Still stout," says I; "an' the third night!"

"Then," says he, pushing his glass towards me, "I 'low they's no real
need o' puttin' me on short allowance. Be liberal, Dannie, b'y--be
liberal when ye pours."

I would be liberal.

"'Tis somehow sort o' comfortable, lad," says he, eying me with honest
feeling, "t' be sittin' down here with a ol' chum like you. 'Tis very
good, indeed."

I was glad that he thought so.

And now I must tell that I loved Judith. 'Tis enough to say so--to
write the bare words down. I'm not wanting to, to be sure: for it
shames a man to speak boldly of sacred things like this. It shames a
lad, it shames a maid, to expose the heart of either, save sacredly to
each other. 'Tis all well enough, and most delightful, when the path
is moonlit and secluded, when the warmth and thrill of a slender hand
may be felt, when the stars wink tender encouragement from the depths
of God's own firmament, when all the world is hushed to make the
opportunity: 'tis then all well enough to speak of love. There is
nothing, I know, to compare in ecstasy with the whisper and sigh and
clinging touch of that time--to compare with the awe and mystery and
solemnity of it. But 'tis sacrilegious and most desperately difficult
and embarrassing, I find, at this distant day, to write of it. I had
thought much upon love, at that wise age--fifteen, it was, I
fancy--and it seemed to me, I recall, a thing to cherish within the
heart of a man, to hide as a treasure, to dwell upon, alone, in
moments of purest exaltation. 'Twas not a thing to bandy about where
punts lay tossing in the lap of the sea; 'twas not a thing to tell the
green, secretive old hills of Twin Islands; 'twas not a thing to which
the doors of the workaday world