share this thing with me."

She started: I recall that her eyes were round and troubled with
incomprehension.

"I've come to tell you, Judith," says I, "that I do not care."

'Twas a brave lie: I am proud of it.

"'Tis kind," she whispered.

We were alone. 'Twas dusk: 'twas dusk, to be sure, of a disquieting
day, with the sky most confidently foreboding some new and surprising
tactics in the ancient warfare of the wind against us; but Judith and
I, being young and engaged with the passion of our years, had no
consciousness of the signs and wonders of the weather. The weather
concerns the old, the satisfied and disillusioned of life, the folk
from whom the romance of being has departed. What care had we for the
weather? 'Twas dusk, and we were alone at the turn of the road--a
broad, rocky twist in the path, not without the softness of grass,
where lovers had kissed in parting since fishing was begun from Twist
Tickle and Whisper Cove. By the falling shades and a screen of young
leaves we were hid from the prying eyes of Whisper Cove. 'Twas from
me, then, that the maid withdrew into a deeper shadow, as though,
indeed, 'twas not fit that we should be together. I was hurt: but
fancied, being stupid and self-centred, that 'twas a pang of isolation
to which I must grow used.

"Why, Judy," says I, "don't, for pity's sake, do that! Why, maid," I
protested, "I don't care. I'm glad--I'm just _glad_!"

"Glad!" she faltered, staring.

"To be sure I'm glad," I cried.

She came close to me.

"I don't care," says I.

"You do not care!" she muttered, looking away. "You do not care!" she
repeated, in a voice that was the faintest, most drear echo of my
own.

"Not I!" I answered, stoutly. "Not a whit!"

She began to cry.

"Look up!" I besought her. "I do not care," I declared again, seeking
in this way to ease her pity of me. "I do _not_ care!"

'Twas a strange thing that happened then: first she kissed the cuff of
my coat, in the extravagant way of a maid, and then all at once
clapped her hands over her eyes, as though to conceal some guilt from
a righteous person. I perceived this: I felt the shame she wished to
hide, and for a moment wondered what that shame might be, but forgot,
since the eyes were mine neither to have read nor to admire, but John
Cather's. And what righteousness had I? None at all that she should
stand ashamed before me. But there she stood, with her blue eyes
hid--a maid in shame. I put my fin