Judith Moore; or, Fashioning a Pipe

by Joanna E. Wood

CHAPTER VI.

"He who sings
To fill the highest purpose, need not soar
Above the lintel of the peasant's door."

Before the Morris house there stretched a space of unkempt grass, broken by three or four irregular flower beds, upon which the grass encroached, from which the flowers sometimes strayed afield. In these beds were clumps of jonquils—"yeller petticoats," Mrs. Morris called them—and there were heavy headed daffodils, which, to Judith's delight, she dubbed daffdowndillies. There were patches of purple iris, too, and through one of the beds the sturdy roseate stems of the common pæony were pushing their way. A big bush of flowering currant was covered with its yellow flowers, murmurous with hundreds of bees, for they are very sweet. The stems of the florets are bitten off by children to get a drop of honey in each, just as in the florets of a clover bloom.

Up and down the sanded pathway leading to Mrs. Morris' front door paced Judith Moore, two days after Andrew's visit. She had on a brown frock, girdled with a filigreed belt of silver gilt; a bunch of jonquils at her bosom caught together the folds of some soft old lace; her heels added a good two inches to her stature, and she felt herself to be very well turned out.

It was warm: the robins were building nests. Presently one flew by with a scrap of brilliant red wool, and in a moment or two flew down from the gable of the house, and regaled itself with a long worm which it had spied from afar. It despatched its lunch with gusto, cocked its head on one side, preened the feathers of its wings with its foot, as one would run the hand through the hair, and then started in on its house-building again. "From labour to refreshment," thought Judith.

She herself was in a state of tremulous happiness; her being, freed from all artificial restraints, released from all conventional bonds, was unfolding, as naturally as the flower buds to the sunshine; her thoughts no longer bent exclusively upon her art, no longer dwelling upon the next triumph, found for themselves new and unexpected pathways. For the first time she gave herself up to the perilous pleasure of introspection. In "sessions of sweet silent thought" her fragmentary dreams and ideals of life, love and nature, were attuning themselves to a true and eager aspiration to be worthy the best gift of each. Her heart—well, her heart had not been awakened yet. Like the great white lilies in Miss Myers' garden, it was yet half asleep, but stirring within it was the sweetness of spring, of springing life, and love, and the first poignant sweetness of self-consciousness. The lilies were yet only putting forth feeble leaves, as if to test what manner of upper world wooed them to put forth a blossom. So the little tender impulses of Judith's heart were yet very timorous. But the lilies would bloom in good time—and the heart?

Judith was still pacing back and forth when a tall, angular figure, in a black cashmere gown and a broad black shade hat, appeared in the gateway, followed decorously by a melancholy red setter, whose melancholy and good manners vanished simultaneously as a cat, walking speculatively round the corner of the house, caught his eye. Rufus vanished, with the cat in a good lead. Rufus' acceptance of the possibilities of the situation had been so prompt, the cat's transition from a dreamer to a fugitive had been so sudden that Judith forgot the propitiatory smile with which she had intended to greet Miss Myers, and gave a regular peal of laughter.

Miss Myers had come to call, or, as she herself put it, had "come to visit a spell with Mrs. Morris."

"Oh, the poor cat!" said Judith, not knowing very well what to say, and getting rather red.

"Is it your cat? I'm real sorry. Rufus is always hard on cats. There's one cat in the village though—but there, you must be the boarder. I'm real glad to see you."

"Yes," said Judith, "I'm Judith Moore, and you must be Miss Myers; I know you by the dog."

Then a quick sense of the vision she had just had of Rufus, the eager outstretched nose, the flying heels whisking past the side of the house, the cat's hysteric spitting as she turned and fled—this made Judith catch her breath.

Miss Myers laughed grimly. It was her fortune always to look grim, even when she wept. Afterwards, Judith knew that Miss Myers had thoroughly appreciated the humour of the situation, and had loved Judith "from the minute I set eyes on her," as Miss Myers said. Perhaps, out of loyalty to Andrew, Miss Myers exaggerated a little her first feeling toward Judith, but for that kindly exaggeration one could gather her in one's arms.

Great indeed must be the love of that woman who is willing to accept, nay, even help, to win the woman who is to displace her in the affections of one with whom she has from babyhood been first. And that is the doom of all women who rear children, whether their own or not; to nurse them, watch them, pray for them, painfully perhaps: keep them as pure as may be; make them as true as possible: and then some day have them bring a stranger, a boy or girl, of whom they have bereft some other woman, and say, "Look, this is my best beloved." Is not that a great reward for which to fast, and thirst, and labour? And yet that is the good guerdon gained by many a woman whose name, if but granted the right meed of praise, would be written in letters of gold on a silver sky.

Recognizing this; what tenderness should not be felt towards such women, what gratitude accorded them for the good gift they have rendered up?

Mrs. Morris came fussily to the door. "Miss Myers, let me make you acquainted with Miss Moore. Come right in; sit down. Won't take off your things? Well, now, that's real mean! I quite expected you'd come for a good visit. Whatever be these dogs a-yelping at? Well, it beats all! Just look at 'em," pointing out at the sitting-room window, which gave a view of the orchard.

In the cleft of an apple-tree, just beyond the reach of the dogs' leaps, sat the cat, an insulting indifference expressed in every line of her crouching shape, turning a calm countenance to her impotent foes. The collie, seduced by the example of Rufus, had cast aside the veneer of amity overlying his natural instinct, and now careered round and round the tree trunk, making futile leaps at the cat; whilst Rufus stood uttering the characteristically mournful bark of his breed, and waving his feathery tail as if courtesy might induce the cat to descend and be worried. However, the cat was an old-stager. Her narrowed eyes gleamed venomously, and she thought evil thoughts, but that was all.

"Old Tab 'll tire them dogs out before they get through with her," said Mrs. Morris, placidly; and sometime later, when the ladies looked forth again, the cat was delicately walking along the top of the board fence, and the two dogs were in full cry after a squirrel. It is probable that those dogs, before they slept that night, wondered many a time and oft what trees were created for, if not specially intended to deprive decent dogs of a little legitimate sport.

Mrs. Morris, when she had no company, occupied her spare time in "teaming" the wool shorn from the sheep, preparatory to sending it to the woollen mill; but she did not bring this work into the sitting-room. She brought in her braided mat. First she sewed strips of cloth together, and when she had three differently coloured balls made, she braided them into a flat strand, then she sewed that round and round, till it grew into a mat. All the rag carpets in Mrs. Morris' house were bestrewn with these mats, placed at irregular intervals, but practice and instinct so guided Mrs. Morris' feet, that she never, by any chance, no matter how engrossed she might be in other matters, stepped upon a space of carpet. There was something very interesting about this. She did it so unconsciously, so accurately, like an erratic automaton. It is true this practice did not conduce to a Delsartean evenness of step: and indeed, Mrs. Morris, when walking through the fields, or along the road, carried in her gait the replica of the floor plan of her first three rooms. Through the front room, the sitting-room, the kitchen, that was the course she mapped upon the road she travelled again and again. The wily Vivien would not have won readily the secret of Mrs. Morris' woven paces.

Miss Myers took off her shade hat and held it on her lap. Judith sat prettily erect, bending forward now and then, as if alert to answer Miss Myers' commonplaces—a flattering attitude that. Mrs. Morris braided her strands firmly, looking benignantly over her spectacles, which, having slipped down to the very point of her nose, by some miracle preserved a tentative hold. Their precarious position gave Miss Myers "nerves." She clasped her thin hands tightly "to stiddy herself up."

They talked of the every-day incidents of their homely lives. The first question that came up was house-cleaning, a very vital matter to the country housewife in spring and autumn. Of course, these two women, being notable house-keepers, had theirs done long ago, but there were others—well, neither of these ladies wished to make remarks, least of all about their neighbours, still—

Then they discussed the proper time for picking the geese (that is, denuding the live geese of the feathers they would otherwise lose), and both had often noticed the wilful waste of the Greens, in letting their geese go unplucked, so that the village street was snowed with wasted feathers which floated about in the air, or sailed, the most fragile of crafts, in the little water-cressed stream. This led naturally to the mysterious disappearance of Hiram Green's twelve geese, a story retold for Judith's benefit.

Once when Hiram Green was breaking in a colt in his barn-yard, the dogs frightened it, and between Hiram's shouts, the dogs' barks and the colt's plunging, the geese, twelve in number, took unto themselves wings and flew away. The fact that they were able to do this reflected directly upon Hiram's management, and pronounced it poor, for, of course, he should have taken the precaution of clipping the feathers of one wing, as every one did, to prevent just such losses. However, the geese flew away. In the excitement of the moment the direction of their flight was unnoted, but willing volunteers spread the news, and defined the ownership of any stray geese which might be found. The Hornes lived in a house very near the crest of the hill upon the south; so near to the top was it, that it gave the impression of wanting to sneak away out of sight of the village. It seemed to withdraw itself from the village gaze, and had a secretive and uncommunicative look. Perhaps the house did not really deserve this description, but popular opinion accorded it. The Hornes were aliens to Ovid: no one knew much about them, and that in itself is a grievance in such a place as Ovid. Well, a zealous searcher for the geese inquired of Mrs. Horne for tidings of them. Mrs. Horne, standing upon her doorstep, regretted Hiram's loss and deplored not having seen them. The messenger departed. But "people talked" as people will when such coincidences occur—when on the next market day Mr. Horne sold twelve fine fat geese, whilst his own pursued the even tenor of their way unmolested.

There was no proof of mal-appropriation, for a dead goose does not usually bear many distinctive marks of individuality—still, people talked. And the next day, when Mrs. Horne bought ticking in Hiram's store, to make a couple of pillows, Hiram felt aggrieved as he tied it up, and vaguely wondered if this was not "seething the kid in its mother's milk." Neither Miss Myers nor Mrs. Morris committed herself to any definite expression of opinion as to the Hornes' responsibility in the matter, for neither of them wished to give the other the opportunity of quoting her verdict, but they shook their heads at each other, and raised their eyebrows and pursed up their lips, and then abruptly branched off to another question, which happened to be whether or not it was advisable to soak carrot seeds in water before planting—the implied decision in the goose question amounting practically to the "Not Proven" verdict of the Scotch courts, than which nothing is more damning.

At last Mrs. Morris' spectacles did fall off, and Miss Myers' nervous start had a good deal of relief in it. A crisis is best over.

Old Mr. Morris came in, and began to discuss the death of Sam Symmons' mare. Not having been present at the consultation regarding her, he was absolutely certain that she had not been accorded the proper treatment. "Might have been the right treatment for an ellefung, but not for a hoss, no, not for a hoss, not by no means." Then he gave a long and critical dissertation upon the merits of each remedy used, proving conclusively, at least to himself, that in the case of Sam's mare they were all so much poison. Miss Myers must come out and see his sorrel filly. "There was a filly like a filly, not such another in the country!" So they all strolled out to the board fence, and looked at the clean-limbed little sorrel, whilst Mr. Morris dilated upon her good points. A man is always frankly and irrepressibly egotistical upon two subjects—his horses and his judgment.

Miss Myers did not go back to the house, and Mrs. Morris and Judith strolled with her to the gate. They bade each other good-bye there, Miss Myers sniffing at a twig of lemon balm which she had gathered. Judith and Mrs. Morris were to visit Miss Myers two days later.

Little had been said about Andrew, but enough to show Judith that he was the very apple of Miss Myers' eye.

"Sarah Myers thinks a powerful sight of Andrew Cutler," said Mrs. Morris. "It seems sort of heathenish to be so set on any one. I don't hold with it. Well, if you hain't got no children to laugh with, you hain't got none to cry over." The yearning of her empty mother-heart had taught her this pitiable philosophy.

* * * * * *

It was three o'clock when Mrs. Morris and Judith reached the Cutler house on the hill.

Mr. Morris had driven them as far as the village in the democrat waggon. He stopped at the blacksmith shop, and they alighted, to walk through the village to their destination, whilst he went on an errand to town. There were very few people to be seen on the village streets.

Tommy Slick and his dog Nip met them. Tommy looked very guileless, with round face, beautifully tinted white and pink, big clear eyes and "lips depressed, as he were meek." In his hands he carried a horse's halter and a tin pail. Nip followed, with limply hanging tail, lowered nose and hunched up shoulders, but an expression not so wholly deprecating as his attitude. When Tommy looked meek, and Nip innocent, it behooved the village to be wary; there was some mischief afoot.

"There's that Slick limb," said Mrs. Morris. "I'll be bound he ain't up to no good: and that dog of his, look at it!"

"It looks hungry," said Judith.

"Then I'll go bail there's no vittles in the village if that dog's going empty," said Mrs. Morris. (Some memory seemed struggling for utterance.)

Judith changed the subject and took up Tommy's case.

"He looks a nice little chap, and he's got a lovely complexion," said she.

"It don't matter how he's complected. He's a Slick," said Mrs. Morris, with decision. "And being a Slick ain't no recommend for a church member; he's got brothers that has been in gaol, that young one has; there's Indian blood in the Slicks. Did you hear any noise when Tommy passed? No, nor you never will. He goes pad, pad along, regular flat-footed Indian fashion—all the Slicks do—no good honest heel-and-toe about them. One of his sisters, the one married over Kneeland way, is just like a squaw for all the world. They say it was the great-great grandmother on the Slick side was a squaw—she came from near Brantford."

"I thought Indians were all dark-skinned," ventured Judith, "and that boy certainly—"

"Well, if his face ain't complected like them, you can depend on it his heart is," interrupted Mrs. Morris, in a tone suggestive of rising temper.

"There's the Slick house now," she said in a voice which indicated that the name of Slick was malodorous to her. She pointed to a rickety, rough plaster house which they were passing. In the doorway stood a frowsy woman, her arms akimbo, her fingers and palms stained a deep purple.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Slick. Been dyeing?" said Mrs. Morris, affably, as they came abreast of her.

"Good day. Yes," said the woman, curtly.

Upon the clothes-line at the end of the house some garments, dipped in purple dye, hung drying.

"Them 'll streak when they dry," said Mrs. Morris, in the discriminating tone of one who knows.

Judith wondered vaguely where she had seen that peculiar purple colour; later she remembered that the outside of the tin pail Tommy Slick carried, had been smeared with it.

Hiram Green greeted them from his shop door as they passed, and Bill Aikins' wife gave them a brisk salutation, without pausing in her work of "sweeping up" her door steps. They passed the school-house; the children were out at recess. Mrs. Morris' brow contracted, and her voice was a little querulous when she spoke next.

"Seems to me children grow powerful noisy these times," she said. "I disremember that they used to be so when I was little."

They turned the corner. Hiram Green's house was the last one in the village. It was a brick house, built flush with the street. It had six windows in front, and these windows had been considered very original and genteel, when Hiram had them put in. For, instead of being the ordinary oblong windows, the tops of these were semicircular. Hiram had intended at first to have the semicircle filled with glass, but decided, from economic reasons, to substitute wood. These wooden tops conveyed the impression of the windows having eyebrows, and gave a supercilious air to the whole house, which was a very good indication of the attitude of Hiram Green and his daughters to their neighbours. There was a Mrs. Green, but she was one of those hard-worked nonentities, never considered in the polity of the household save as a labour-saving agent. The Misses Green were usually to be seen on a fine afternoon either on the "stoop," or by the open parlour windows. Mrs. Green was never visible; she was obliterated beneath the burden of work she bore upon her patient shoulders.

The Misses Green were out in force as Judith and Mrs. Morris went by. Enshrined in their midst was a sallow young Methodist clergyman, somewhat meagre-looking, but with a countenance full of content. He fairly gaped after Judith. Mrs. Morris greeted the Misses Green coldly. She did not like them. Their mother and Mrs. Morris had been friends in girlhood, and Mrs. Morris had a poor opinion of her old friend's daughters. "Hester Green's got no spunk or she would not stand it," she said with asperity, and added, "Poor thing!"

Mrs. Green's wistful eyes looked at them from the kitchen window, where she was frying crullers for the minister's tea. But she did not think of her own lot as being harder than Mrs. Morris'—far from it.

"Poor Jane, trapesing along with a strange girl, and me got four daughters," she said to herself, and dropped a bit of potato into the bubbling fat to see if it was at the proper temperature.

Perhaps Mrs. Green's daughters as well as their "ways" were rocks of offence to Mrs. Morris, yet they were truly a poor possession to covet.

A short walk, and then Judith and Mrs. Morris were at the foot of the hill-side. They entered Andrew's domain; and found, as they closed the gate, that Miss Myers and Andrew had come to meet them.

Andrew had longed intensely during the four days just gone to see Judith again. So extravagant had his desire for this been, that when he saw her coming afar off, he felt almost a regret. The anticipation had been so satisfying that he felt a stifled fear, lest the vision he found to surpass the real. But when she gave him her hand, and looked at him, straight from her honest eyes into his—well, then he knew no dream could be so dear as the sweet reality. And from that moment the world put on a different countenance to those two—the sky, the water, the clouds, and the earth's bloom-scented face all changed.

As they turned to follow Miss Myers and Mrs. Morris they were a little silent. A quieting hand seemed to have been laid in benediction upon their hasty pulses. An awe, not of each other, but of the holy realm they felt they were entering, fell upon them. From the portals of that Promised Land there seemed to issue a gentle but compelling voice, bidding them tread gently, for the place whereon they stood was holy ground. In Andrew's heart there surged a new strength, a strong tide of resolution. In Judith's heart there sprang to life many sweet hopes, savoured and sanctified almost to pain, by a new sweet fear.

Their voices softened. Andrew's tones seemed informed with a new meaning. Judith's accents held a hint of appeal.

But this transformation was unacknowledged by each of them. Judith's eyes still met his bravely, and he constrained himself to self-control. But what a glorified place that linden-laden hill-side had become!

Judith laughed out happily.

"I am happy!" she said, out of sheer light-heartedness. "Are you?"

Andrew drew his breath in swiftly, and closed his lips firmly a moment, as to repress some words that strove for utterance.

"Yes, I should think I am," he said.

They passed under the apple-tree by the garden gate. Its petals seemed almost spent—the life of the apple blossom is short. But how much sweeter the spot, and the tree, when she stood beneath it, than ever it had been before in all its glory and bloom! They were in the garden; the old sun-dial with the linden tree beside it stood in the sunshine. Judith's eyes filled with happy tears, which Andrew did not see; he only thought her eyes were bright. It seemed to her that her spirit had found its natal place here on the hill. These aromatic breaths from the box, the perfume of the violets, the odour of the cherry blossom, the sound of the birds, the rustle of the leaves—surely these were the scents and sounds of home.

"Do you know what Mrs. Browning says of such a tree?" she asked.

"No: tell me."

"I do not know if I can remember it. I'll try. I—" (She was nervous—she who had sung to the Kaiser!) Then she repeated, her voice trembling a little—

"Here a linden tree stood, bright'ning
All adown its silver rind;
For as some trees draw the lightning,
So this true, unto my mind,
Drew to earth the blessed sunshine
From the sky where it was shrined."

"I think it is you who have drawn down the sunshine," he said. "Anyhow, it is always sunshine where you are."

She was amazed at the joy which flooded her heart at this commonplace compliment. They loitered about the garden until Miss Myers summoned them to tea. Judith came in almost shyly before these two country women, who, to tell the truth, had felt the freer to enjoy themselves in her absence.

Miss Myers took her into a bedroom to lay off her hat. It was cool, quiet, large, with corners already growing dusky in the fading light. A huge bed heaped high with feathers was covered with a snowy coverlet. Some tall geraniums with fragrant, fern-like leaves stood in the windows: a dark, polished table filled one angle. The mirror, a little square of dim glass, was set in a polished mahogany frame, and placed upon a high chest of drawers of the same rich dusky wood.

There was something pure, still, almost ascetic, in the large bare room. Its spotlessness seemed to diffuse a sense of restful peace. One would have said no weary eyes had ever held vain vigil here, that no restless heart had here sought slumber without finding it.

Judith somehow felt like lowering her voice. She took off her hat and patted her hair solicitously as every normal woman does. She could only see her face in the mirror, nothing more, not even the purple and yellow pansies in the breast of her yellow frock. She touched them gently. Andrew had picked them for her in the garden.

"Am I right?" she asked, looking at Miss Myers.

"Couldn't be improved," said Miss Myers, heartily, upon whom Judith's interest in the garden and evident desire to please had made quite an impression in the last few minutes.

So they went back to the sitting-room together, when Miss Myers excused herself for a few minutes whilst she went to give the finishing touches to her table—to see that the girl had set it properly, get out the best china and the silver teapot, the richest fruit-cake, the finest canned peaches, and fill the cream ewer with the thickest of cream.

Andrew was leaning against a window casement as Judith entered the room. The broad window-sills were full of flowers; the heavy old red curtains were pushed far back to the sills, making a dusky background for Andrew's tall figure in its rusty velveteens. Judith advanced toward him, her yellow frock looking almost white in the waning light, the purple heartsease a dark blot upon her breast.

"Isn't that plant pretty?" she asked Mrs. Morris, feeling a nervous desire to include her in the conversation—she felt so much alone with Andrew.

"Which?" asked Mrs. Morris, joining them at the window. "The 'Aaron's Beard' or the 'Jacob's Ladder'?"

"I mean this hanging plant," said Judith.

"Oh, the 'Mother of Millions'; yes, it's real handsome," said Mrs. Morris, looking at the luxuriant pot of Kenilworth Ivy over which Judith was bending.

"What a funny name!" said Judith.

"Oh, it don't make much difference about the names of 'em," returned Mrs. Morris. "Only so long as you know 'em by 'em."

Miss Myers entered, and they followed her to the dining-room.

Miss Myers was reputedly the most forehanded house-keeper in Ovid, and supposed to set the best table of any one in the village, "and no thanks to her for it; she's got plenty to do with"—as her neighbours often said. But in spite of her liberal house-keeping, Miss Myers "looked well to the ways of her household"; there were no small channels of waste permitted under her régime.

Judith was charmed with everything—the chicken and ham, which Andrew deftly dispensed; the huge glass dish of peaches, preserved whole, and with a few long green peach-leaves put with them to flavour them; the snowy white cream-cheese set on a bed of parsley: the young lettuce fresh gathered from the garden (of which Mrs. Morris said later, "It was just murdering them lettuce to pick 'em so young"): the black fruit cake: and the bread browned in Miss Myers' brick oven.

A cat sprang upon the sill of the open window, and after some pretence of surprise (at which Andrew raised his eyebrows and looked at Judith), Miss Myers gave it a saucer of milk on the window-ledge. Strangely enough there happened to be an extra saucer handy. Judith sat demurely, feeling that there never had been such a joke as she and Andrew perceived in Miss Myers' poor pretence of astonishment at the cat's daring. The cat finished her milk, and sat washing her face industriously.

Rufus sat sedately beside his master's chair, with a look almost of sanctity in his big hazel eyes. Rufus never begged, but he shifted his forepaws uneasily and swept his banner of a tail along the floor, mutely importunate. Later on Judith learned this was the regular performance of these two favourites. There were other dogs about the place, and barn cats in plenty, but these two chosen ones had the high seats in the synagogue.

There were antlers between the windows, and over the side table, and above the doors; a trophy of wild ducks and water fowl was mounted upon a beautiful hard-wood panel; foxes' masks grinned from the corners. And when they passed out to the hall, there was the old musket, the sword with its crimson sash, a pair of rusty spurs and a cartridge belt, all hung upon the huge horns of the one moose which Andrew's gun had brought down.

An incident at the table had disturbed Judith very much. In response to a request for salt, she had handed Andrew some, and Mrs. Morris promptly said:

"Well, you shouldn't have done that. That's a bad oming. 'Help one to salt, help them to sorrow.' That's terrible unlucky."

"Oh, Mr. Cutler," said Judith, "do you think I've given you sorrow?"

"No," said Andrew. "No, indeed; I don't believe any of those old sayings." Miss Myers was silent.

"Well," said Mrs. Morris, "I don't know; them things seems bore out sometimes. There was young Henry Braddon; he keeps post-office now" (this to Judith) "and one day his mother gave him some salt to salt the cattle. 'Help one to salt, help one to sorrow,' says he, and off he went, and when he come back his mother lay in the porch, took with the stroke she died of."

Judith's face was pale and startled.

"Seems to me," said Andrew, dryly, feeling as if he would like to choke Mrs. Morris—"seems to me the brunt of that bad luck fell on her."

"I wish I'd never seen salt," said Judith. "Do you think any bad luck will come of it?"

"Nonsense," said Andrew, and somehow his manlike scorn did much to reassure Judith, but when the others were not looking, she pushed the offending salt as far as possible from her.

Mr. Morris was to call for them, and he arrived very soon, but in the meantime the evening had grown a little chill, and Judith had no wrap. She denied feeling cold, but as they stood in the porch she shivered. Andrew ran in and brought out a huge homespun shawl and bundled her up in it; her face, in contrast to its heavy rough folds, looked very delicate and white.

She was seated alone in the second seat of the democrat waggon. Andrew came to her side; his eyes were nearly on a level with hers.

"You never showed me the birds' nests!" she said.

"Oh, you must come back and see those," he said eagerly. "You will come back?"

"As often as Miss Myers will let me," said Judith, unaffectedly. "And"—she coloured a little—-"you'll come and see my bird's nest in the field?"

"Yes, to-morrow," said Andrew.

Mr. Morris shook the reins over the old sorrel. Judith bent over giving Andrew her hand.

"Mr. Cutler," she said hastily, "you don't think I gave you sorrow?"

"No," he said, some deep feeling making his voice intense in its quiet strength. "No, you give me—" The old sorrel was eager to get back to her slim-fetlocked daughter, and she sprang forward. Judith's hand seemed torn from him; his sentence was left incomplete.

"Good-night," he said.

"Good-night, good-night," called Judith in return.