ger under her chin and tried to
raise her face, but could not; nor could I with any gentleness
withdraw her hands. She was crying: I wondered why. I stooped to peer
between her fingers, but could see only tears and the hot color of her
flushes. I could not fathom why she cried, except in excess of
happiness or in adorable pity of me. The wind rose, I recall, as I
puzzled; 'twas blowing through the gloaming in a soothing breeze from
the west, as though to put the fears of us to sleep. A gentle gust,
descending to our sheltered place, rustled the leaves and played with
the maid's tawny hair; and upon this she looked up--and stepped into
the open path, where, while her tears dried and her drooping
helplessness vanished, she looked about the sky, and felt of the wind,
to discover its direction and promise of strength. 'Twas a thing of
tragical significance, as it seems to me now, looking back from the
quiet mood in which I dwell; but then, having concern only to mitigate
the maid's hysteria, following upon the stress of emotion I conceived
she had undergone, this anxious survey of the weather had no meaning.
I watched her: I lingered upon her beauty, softened, perfected,
enhanced in spiritual quality by the brush of the dusk; and I could no
longer wish John Cather joy, but knew that I must persist in the
knightly endeavor.

"The wind's from the west," says she. "A free wind."

"For Topmast Harbor," says I; "but a mean breeze for folk bound
elsewhere."

"A free wind for Topmast Harbor," she repeated.

"No matter," says I.

"'Tis a great thing," she replied, "for them that are bound to Topmast
Harbor."

'Twas reproachfully spoken.

"You'll be going home now, maid," I entreated. "You'll leave me walk
with you, will you not?"

She looked down in a troubled muse.

"You'll leave me follow, then," says I, "to see that you've no fear of
the dark. 'Twill be dark soon, Judith, and I'm not wanting you to be
afraid."

"Come!" cries she. "I _will_ walk with you--home!"

She took my hand, and entwined her long fingers with mine, in the
intimate, confiding way she was used to doing when we were a lad and a
maid on the dark roads. Many a time, when we were lad and maid, had
Judith walked forward, and I backward, to provide against surprise by
the shapes of night; and many a dark time had she clutched my hand,
nearing the lights of Twist Tickle, to make sure that no harm would
befall her. And now, in this childish way, she h