"Oh, Dannie, lad!" cries she, her little hands clasped, a pitiful
quaver in her voice, so that I felt consigned to woe, indeed, for this
misdoing, "you'll be a liar as black as--"
There was no more of it.
"You dare not say it!" I taunted.
I did not wish that she should: not I! but still, being a lad, would
have her come close enough to sauce the devil. But I would not have
her say that word. Indeed, I need not have troubled. 'Twas not in her
mind to be so unmaidenly, with a lad at hand to serve her purpose.
"No," says she, "I dare not; but you, Dannie, bein' a lad--"
Her voice trailed off expectantly.
"Black as hell?"
She nodded.
"Come, maid," says I, "you've called me a liar."
"I wasn't wantin' to."
"No odds," says I. "An' if I'm a liar," says I, "I 'low I'm a fool for
it?"
"You is."
"Then, my maid," cries I, in triumph, "you'll be keepin' me company in
hell! You've called me a fool. 'An' whoso calleth his brother a
fool--'"
"Oh no," says she, quite undisturbed. "'Tis not so."
"Not so?"
"Why, no, child! Didn't you know?"
"But it _says_ so!"
"Dannie, child," says she, with unruffled superiority, "I come down
from heaven one year an' five months after God sent you. An' God
_told_ me, Dannie, just afore I left Un at the Gate, that He'd changed
His mind about that."
The particular color of this stupendous prevarication I am still
unable to determine....
* * * * *
Here in the cabin of the _Shining Light_ was my workshop. On the
bench, stout-hulled and bravely masted, was a bark to be rigged. My
fingers itched to be dealing with the delicate labor. 'Twas no time
now, thought I, all at once, to dally with the child. The maid was a
sweet maid, an amiably irritating maid, well enough, in her way, to
idle with; but the building of the ship was a substantial delight,
subject to the mastery of a man with hands and a will, the end a sure
achievement--no vague, elusive thing, sought in madness, vanishing in
the grasp. I would be about this man's-work. Never was such a ship as
this ship should be! And to the work went Judith and I. But
presently, as never happened before, I was in some strange way
conscious of Judith's nearness. 'Twas a soft, companionable presence,
indeed! I bungled the knots, and could no longer work my will upon the
perverse spars, but had rather dwell upon her slender hands, swiftly,
capably busy, her tawny hair, her sun-browned cheeks and the creamy
curve of her brow, the blue and flash and fathomless depths of her
eyes. I remembered the sunlight and freshening breeze upon the hills,
the chirp and gentle stirring of the day, the azure sea and far-off,
tender mist, the playful breakers, flinging spray high into the yellow
sunshine. 'Twas no time now, thought I, to be busied with craft in the
gloomy cabin of the _Shining Light_, which was all well enough in its
way; 'twas a time to be abroad in the sunlit wind. And I sighed: not
knowing what ailed me, but yet uneasy and most melancholy. The world
was an ill place for a lad to be (thinks I), and all the labor of it a
vanity....
* * * * *
Now the afternoon was near spent. My hands were idle--my eyes and
heart far astray from the labor of the time. It was very still and
dreamful in the cabin. The chinks were red with the outer glow, and a
stream of mote-laden sunlight, aslant, came in at the companionway.
It fell upon Judith.
"Judy," I whispered, bending close, "I 'low I might as well--might as
well have--"
She looked up in affright.
"Have a kiss," said I.
"Oh no!" she gasped.
"Why not? Sure I'm able for it!"
"Ay," she answered, in her wisdom yielding this; "but, Dannie, child,
'tisn't _'lowed_."
"Why not?"
Her eyes turned round with religious awe. "God," said she, with a
solemn wag, "wouldn't like it."
"I'd never stop for that."
"May be," she chided; "but I 'low, lad, we ought t' 'blige Un once in
a while. 'Tis no more than kind. An' what's a kiss t' lack? Pooh!"