“’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 held 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.