I remember the day––the mist and wind and clamoring sea and solemn hills, the dour, ill-tempered world wherein we were, our days as grass (saith the psalmist). Ay, an’ ’tis so. I remember the day: the wet moss underfoot; the cold wind, blowing as it listed; the petulant sea, wreaking an ancient enmity, old and to continue beyond our span of feeling; the great hills of Twin Islands hid in mist, but yet watching us; the clammy fog embracing us, three young, unknowing souls. I shall not forget––cannot forget––the moment of that first meeting of the maid Judith with John Cather. ’Twas a sombre day, as he had said––ay, a troubled sea, a gray, cold, sodden earth!
“And has nobody told you that you were pretty?” my tutor ran on, in pleasant banter.
She would not answer; but shyly, in sweet self-consciousness, looked down.
“No?” he insisted.
She was too shy of him to say.
“Not even one?” he persisted, tipping up the blushing little face. “Not even one?”
I thought it very bold.
“Come, now,” says he. “There is a boy. You are so very pretty, you know. You are so very, very pretty. There must be a boy––a sweetheart. Surely there is at least one lad of taste at Twist Tickle. There is a sweetheart; there must be a sweetheart. I spell it with a D!” cries he, triumphantly, detecting the horrified glance that passed between Judy and me. And he clapped me on the back, and stroked Judith’s tawny hair, his hand bold, winning; and he laughed most heartily. “His name,” says he, “is Daniel!”
“Yes, sir,” said Judith, quite frankly.