eld me; and she walked
with me twenty paces on the path to Twist Tickle, whereupon she
stopped, and led me back to that same nook of the road, and doggedly
released me, and put an opposing hand on my breast.

"Do you bide here," says she; "and when I call, do you go home."

"An you wish it," I answered.

'Twas not more than twenty paces she walked towards the impoverished
cottages of Whisper Cove: then turned, and came again to me. I
wondered why she stood in this agony of indecision: but could not
tell, nor can be blamed for the mystification, relentlessly as I blame
myself.

"Dannie," she moaned, looking up, "I can go nowhere!"

"You may go home, maid," says I. "'Tis a queer thing if you may not go
home."

"'Tis an unkind thing."

"Come!" I pleaded. "'Twill so very soon be dark on the road; and I'm
not wantin' you t' wander in the dark."

"I cannot," says she. "I just cannot!"

"Judith," I chided, "you may. 'Tis an unseemly thing in you to say."

"But I cannot bear it, Dannie!"

"I would cry shame upon you, Judith," I scolded, "were _I_ not so
careful of your feelings."

She seemed now to command herself with a resolution of which tender
maids like Judith should not be capable: 'tis too lusty and harsh a
thing. I stood in awe of it. "Dannie," says she, "do you go home. I'll
follow an I can. And if I do not come afore long, do you tell un to
think that I spend the night with the wife of Moses Shoos. You may
kiss me, Dannie, lad," says she, "an you cares t' do it."

I did care: but dared not.

"I'm wishin' for it," says she.

"But," I protested, "is you sure 'tis right?"

"'Tis quite right," she answered. "God understands."

"I'd be glad," says I.

"You may kiss me, then."

I kissed her. 'Tis a thing I regret: 'twas a kiss so lacking in
earnest protraction--so without warmth and vigor. 'Twas the merest
brushing of her cheek. I wish I had kissed her, like a man, in the
fulness of desire I felt; but I was bound, in the last light of that
day, to John Cather, in knightly honor.

"'Twas very nice," says she. "I wisht you'd do it again."

I did.

"Thank you, Dannie," she whispered.

"Judith!" I cried. "Judith! For shame, to thank me!"

"And now," says she, "you'll be off on the road. You'll make haste,
will you not? And you'll think, will you not, that I spend the night
with Mrs. Shoos? You'll not fret, Dannie: I'd grieve to think that you
fretted. I'd not have you, for all the world, trouble