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.”