knew John Cather's business in our house: else,
thinks I, 'twould be a mean, poor match we should make of it in the
end. I would have her: and there, says I, with a toss and a stamp, to
my uncle's delight, was an end of it! It came about in this way that
we three spent the days together in agreeable employment: three young,
unknowing souls--two lads and a maid. In civil weather, 'twas in the
sunlight and breeze of the hills, 'twas in shady hollows, 'twas on the
warm, dry rocks, which the breakers could not reach, 'twas on the
brink of the cliff, that Cather taught us, leaving off to play, by my
uncle's command, when we were tired of study; and when the wind blew
with rain, or fog got the world all a-drip, or the task was
incongruous with sunshine and fresh air (like multiplication), 'twas
within doors that the lesson proceeded--in my library, which my uncle
had luxuriously outfitted for me, when still I was an infant, against
this very time.

"John Cather," says I, one day, "you've a wonderful tongue in your
head."

'Twas on the cliff of Tom Tulk's Head. We had climbed the last slope
hand in hand, with Judith between, and were now stretched out on the
brink, resting in the cool blue wind from the sea.

"A nimble tongue, Dannie," he replied, "I'll admit."

"A wonderful tongue!" I repeated. "John Cather," I exclaimed, in
envious admiration, "you've managed t' tell Judy in ten thousand ways
that she's pretty."

Judith blushed.

"I wisht," says I, "that _I_ was so clever as that."

"I know still another way," said he.

"Ay; an' a hundred more!"

"Another," said he, softly, turning to Judith, who would not look at
him. "Shall I tell you, Judith?"

She shook her head.

"No?" said he. "Why not?"

The answer was in a whisper--given while the maid's hot face was still
turned away. "I'm not wantin' you to," she said.

"Do, maid!" I besought her.

"I'm not wantin' him to."

"'Tis your eyes, I'll be bound!" said I. "'Twill be so clever that
you'll be glad to hear."

"But I'm not _wantin'_ him to," she persisted.

My tutor smiled indulgently--but with a pitiful little trace of hurt
remaining. 'Twas as though he must suffer the rebuff with no offended
question. In the maid 'twas surely a wilful and bewildering thing to
deny him. I could not make it out: but wished, in the breeze and
sunlight of that day, that the wound had not been dealt. 'Twas an
unkind thing in Judith, thinks I; 'twas a thing most cruel--thu