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 1 
 
 6 
 
JUDITH MOORE; 
 
 OR, 
 
 FASHIONING A PIPE. 
 
FASHIONING A PIPE. 
 
 " He tore out a reed, the great god Pan, 
 From the deep, cool bed of the river. 
 
 " Hacked and hewed as a great god can, 
 With his hard, bleak steel at the patient reed, 
 Till there was not a sign of n he leaf, indeed, 
 To prove it fresh from the river. 
 He out it short, did the great god Pan, 
 (How tall it stood in the river ! ) 
 Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man. 
 Steadily from the outside ring. 
 And notched the poor, dry, empty thing 
 In holes as he sat by the river. 
 ' This is the way, ' laughed the great god Pan, 
 . . . * The only way since gods began 
 To make sweet music, they could succeed.' 
 . . . Yet half a beast is the great god Pan, 
 To laugh as he sits by the ri^ 3r, 
 The true gods sigh for the cost and pain. 
 For the reed which grows nevermore again 
 As a reed with the reeds in the river. " 
 
 — Mrs. Barrett Browning. 
 
i' 
 
 y^ 
 
 /O 
 
 UDITH MOORE; 
 
 / 
 
 ent reed, 
 ndeed, 
 
 OR, 
 
 FASHIONING A PIPE. 
 
 BY 
 
 a man, 
 
 ling 
 
 ;od Pan, 
 egan 
 ceed.' 
 god Pan, 
 
 tain, 
 
 I again 
 
 »> 
 
 Browning. J 
 
 JOANNA E. WOOD. 
 
 Author of "The UiUempered Wind,*^ etc. 
 
 i 
 
 TORONTO: 
 
 The Ontario publishing Co., Limited. 
 
 1898. 
 
LD. 
 
 ooa,S.S 
 
 ) - ' 
 
 Entered according to Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year r melai 
 thousand eight hundred and ninety-eight, by The Ontario Pvbii- ^^n\ 
 iNO Co.» Limited, at the Department of Agriculture, Ottawa. »WlitJ 
 
 )rni 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 iii 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 "BeJ;oltl ft dower went forth to sow." 
 
 Andrew Cutler, with his graceful and 
 la. in the year c ittflaiicholy red Irish setter at his heels, walked 
 
 I Ontario Pmi« oMmif^}.. i • n ^^ »'='=ia, wtiiiteu 
 
 re, Ottawa. ^"^J across his fields to the " clearing " one 
 naming late in spring. 
 
 *He was clad in the traditional blue jeans of 
 countryman, and wore neither coat nor vest; 
 leathern belt was drawn about his middle' 
 i shirt, open a bit at the throat, and guiltless 
 collar and tie, displayed a neck .ch as we 
 modelled in old bronzes, and of much the 
 ^e colour; for Andrew Cutler was tanned to 
 % pomt of being swart. His h«nd had a 
 ^^ewhat backward pose, expressive of an 
 iBfependence almost over-accentuated, 
 ^is hair was cropped short, and was of a sun- 
 l«jmt brown, like his long moustache. His eyes 
 ^re blue-grey, that softened to hazel or hard- 
 
10 
 
 JUDITH MOOKE. 
 
 > 
 if- 
 
 a 
 r 
 
 Urn] 
 
 had 
 
 oned to the hue ot' steel. His nose was a(iuiliiie 
 with the little flattened plateau on tlie brid;' 
 that we call *' Spanish." His chin was stronj,' 
 the chin of a man who " manlike, would liav 
 his way." 
 
 Mother Nature must laugh in her sleeve 
 the descriptive names we tack to her modi 
 This man so completely satisfied the appellatii |^ti 
 " aristocratic," that, with the stubbornness ot % w 
 much-humoured word, it persists in suggest!: deai 
 itself as the best vehicle to describe this you: cine 
 farmer, and indeed the combination would aeeir 
 entirely to the advantage of the adjective, wlii ston( 
 is often seen in poor company. A veritai off ^ 
 rustic Antinous he was, with broad chest, sli bitw 
 lithe loins, and muL^cles strong ae steel. Shi tliat 
 athwart his shoulder was a sack of coarse bro' gdod 
 canvas that bulged with a heavy load ; but haid 
 strode on, his balance undisturbed, and preseii Pi 
 he stood upon the verge of the clearing. T nifec 
 was simply a part of the woodland that Andr Ula 
 was taking under cultivation. A some^rl ytairg 
 unpromising piece it looked, with its stubl 
 stumps standing irregularly amid the broliO]^ 
 furrows — (for it had been ploughed, in 8[W0uI( 
 fashion as ploughing may be done when one seed - 
 to twist around stumps, over stones, and t w«b i 
 through long strong roots). thpy 
 

 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 11 
 
 ran a»iuiliiit 
 I the bri'l- 
 ms stron^- 
 
 WOUUI luiv 
 
 icr sleeve i 
 her uiodi'l 
 e appelliitk 
 bornness uf 
 in suggestii 
 
 "^ An<h*e\v ivinenihcnMl the i)loii*:fhin<j;, as he 
 
 l^alkod across to ]M>^in his sowin<jj, like tlie good 
 
 Ipriner tliat he was, at the einl-rig;^. Here was 
 
 fKe stump tliat had reHiste<l j^unpowder, leverage 
 
 d lire, and that now was heing tortured by 
 
 Itpetre, charge<l in a dtiep augur liole. Well, it 
 
 d been a right brave old tree, but the salt- 
 
 tre wouhl win to the stout oaken heart yet. 
 
 was perliaps a step in the riglit direction, this 
 
 fearing of the woodland, but all progress seems 
 
 )e this yoiii Ciuel at first. Here — as he passed over what 
 
 on would seemed a particularly smooth bit — the great 
 
 iiective, whi stone lay hidden that had broken his ploughshare 
 
 A verital off with a crash, and sent him flying from 
 
 [d chest, sli between the plough-stilts. He would remember 
 
 steel. Sill that stone for some time ! So doubtless would 
 
 coarse bro' gdod old Bess, whose patient brown shoulders 
 
 load • but hiid borne the brunt of the shock. 
 
 and preseii Ploughing a field is like ploughing the sea — one 
 
 »learinff. i lAds must have a chart of each to steer safely. 
 
 d that Andr TSat more formidable sea, " whose waves are 
 
 A some^vl jArs," has no chart. Next winter would see 
 
 h its stubl> t^ uprooting of all these stumps, and the felling 
 
 id the brolo%i™ore trees beyond. Next spring the plough 
 
 trhed in s would pass straight from end to end, and the 
 
 ^ when one seid-drill would sow the space which now he 
 
 ones and t^ie about to sow in the old classic fashion — as 
 
 th|y sowed, in intervals of stormy peace, the 
 
 :(f 
 
 M 
 
12 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 grain after tlie vvocxleii ploughs on the Swins hill 
 sides ; as Ulysses sowed the salt upon the sea 
 shore ; as the sowers sowed the seed in tli^ 
 far-ott' East, as has been handed down to us in 
 matchless allegory. (ji^]{ 
 
 He began his task, hand and foot niovin<f i ||jj., 
 rhythm, and cadenced by the sharp swish, swi^ ^^ 
 of the grain as it left his hand, spreading fai >^ 1 
 wise over the soil. It takes a strong wrist aii m^i 
 a peculiar " knack " to sow grain well by Iuuk nest 
 he had both. horn 
 
 The dog followed him for a couple of ridg^ patii 
 but, besides the ploughed ground being distant robb 
 ful to him (for he was a dainty dog and fa inth 
 tidious), the buckwheat hit him in the eyes, ai the ( 
 his master paid no heed to him, a combinatii gran 
 of circumstances not be borne ; hence, he short abov 
 betook himself to the woodland, where he raist ing 
 a beautiful little wild rabbit and coursed after who." 
 until with a final kick of its furry heels it land aild 
 safe beneath a great pile of black walnut lo; mom 
 built up criss-cross fashion to mellow for i the s 
 market. Rufus (named from " William tlie Et in t 
 surnamed Rufus ") returned to his master, i w|y, 
 dejectedly, but with a melancholy cont'^mpt 
 rcbbits that would not "run it out," but to 
 
 shelter in a sneaking way where they could : 
 be come at. 
 
 it: 
 
 1 1 
 
 ii : 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 18 
 
 B Swiss 
 )on the sea 
 leed in ih 
 jn to viH int 
 
 it moving i; 
 swish, swisi 
 reading t'ai 
 ig wrist an 
 rell by haiic 
 
 g^ 
 
 pie of rid 
 
 leing distasl 
 
 dog and fa 
 
 I the eyes, ai 
 
 combinatii 
 ice, he shon 
 lere he vm 
 ursed after 
 heels it laml 
 c walnut lo, 
 ellow for t 
 lliam the l^ 
 is master, i 
 
 cont'^mpt 
 3ut," but ti 
 
 hey couUl 
 
 ^ By tliis time Andrew was well on with his 
 llork. The sack beneath his arm was growing 
 %np, he himself was warm. He paused as a 
 
 Srd flew up from a turned sod at his feet, and 
 little search showed the simple nest of a grey- 
 Urd — open to the sun and rain, built guilelessly, 
 liithout defence of strategy or strength. 
 
 ■There is something cmiss with the man or 
 woman whose heart is not touclied by a bird's 
 nifest — the daintiest possible epitome of love, and 
 home, and honest work, and self-sacrificing 
 patience. Andrew had thrashed many a boy for 
 robbing birds' nests, and had discharged a man 
 in the stress of haying because he knocked down 
 the clay nests of the swallows from beneath the 
 f^ranary eaves with a long pole. Now he bent 
 above this nest with curious tender eyes, touch- 
 ing the spotted eggs lightly whilst the bird, 
 whose breast had left them warm, flittec to 
 lUftd fro upon the furrows. He remained bui i 
 moment (the bird's anxiety was cruel), then, fixing 
 the spot in his memory that he might avoid it 
 iaithe hari-owing, he was about to go on his 
 wi^y, when his ears were assailed by a succession 
 o^bhe sweetest sounds he had ever heard — note 
 a^r note of purest melody, Jlung forth unsyl- 
 lafiled, full-throated to the air, inarticulate but 
 eJ^uent Again and again it came, liquid, rich, 
 
14 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 '■I ^ 
 
 ^'!!i 
 
 ilii 
 
 and with that pathos which perfection always 
 touches. flu* 
 
 At first he could not fix the direction from Ivf^ 
 whence it came. It was as if the heavens abovi ij^-: 
 had opened and showered down music upon hi rdb 
 heart as he had flung forth the seed upon tin n^t 
 ei -th ; and indeed there were two sowings tliai bi^ 
 morning and from each harvests were garneiol 
 — first the bloom and then the fruit there(jt b^i 
 But as he listened longer he knew it issiui v^c 
 from the wood before him. At the first not' ^A 
 some impulse made him snatch oft* his old iVIi Ii 
 hat, and he stood there, bareheaded in the sun gJS^i 
 shine, as one might stand to whom had come tli tiiro 
 pang of inspiration. ^ - fron 
 
 The singer was voicing no composition, onli 9^0] 
 uttering isolated notes, or short cresceudos, ter <^0 
 minating in notes of excjuisite beauty, but leaving 
 a sense of incompleteness that was so intens 
 as to be almost e physical pain to him — only for 
 gotten when the next utterance robbed him c 
 retrospect and filled him with hope. Any on i 
 who has heard a perfect singer practising 
 knows the sensation. In such fashion the unsec 
 sirens sang, and men willingly risked death i *m| ^^ 
 touch the iips that had been parted by sue ^'•fS i 
 melodious breath. ^^ '" 
 
 Andrew still stood, and at last silence fei^*s< 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 15 
 
 jtioii always 
 
 rection from 
 ea veils above 
 isic upon lii< 
 sed upon tin 
 sowings thai 
 ere garneid 
 Tuit theiiMjf 
 ew it issiU'i: 
 he first not- 
 r his old tVl- 
 I ill the sun 
 had come tli 
 
 ►osition, o'.il 
 escendos, ter 
 y, but leaviii. 
 IS so intens 
 m — only for 
 bbed him c 
 )e. Any on 
 practising 
 )n the unset 
 ked death! 
 ed by sue 
 
 ; silence IV 
 
 -—«, silence lie hardly comprehended at first, so 
 filled was it with the dream of sound that 
 lutid passed, so instinct with expectation ; but 
 ij|- forced itself upon him, and then suddenly 
 round him there sounded all the commonplace 
 nOBses of life — the croaking of a tree toad, the 
 bljzzing of a chance fly, the far-off shouting of 
 men, and the sounds of birds— all that •had 
 b#en deadened to his ear by the magic of that 
 vmce. 
 
 A voice — then whence ? 
 
 In two strides he was over the ploughed 
 ground and in the woods. He sea»*ched 
 through and through it in vain. He looked 
 frpm its borders at his own far-off farm-house 
 among its trees, at the gables of the village 
 of Ovid clustering together, at the tin on the 
 Baptist Church spire glistening in the midst, at 
 t^ long low Morris homestead that nestled in a 
 li|fcle hollow beyond his wood ; but all was as 
 m^al, nothing new, nothing strange. No angel's 
 glj^tening wing was to be seen anywhere. 
 
 Andrew's grain was spent, but the clearing 
 was not yet all sown. So he went home leaving 
 hip task unfinished. From one thing to another 
 w|s the rule of his busy life. He gave a cheery 
 Wf rd or two to his aunt, Miss Myers, who kept 
 ItCpse for him, and then he was off to town with 
 
,,,E 
 
 ! 
 
 W 
 
 I 
 i I 
 
 i:';i 
 
 'I 
 
 !!i 
 
 'HI'' 
 
 :il 
 
 
 16 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 a waggon load of implements to be mended i: 
 time for the summer work. 
 
 That night a group of typical Ovidians wei 
 gathered in the kitchen of old Sam Syninioiif 
 house. 
 
 Sam Symmons lived in a frame house, just a 
 the foot of the incline which led into thevillai' 
 from the north. Like many of the houses ( 
 O /id, his was distinctly typical of its owner, 
 new house was such a rare thing in Ovid, tli 
 the old ones had time to assimilate the charactc 
 of their possessors, and to assume an individ 
 ality denied to the factors of a more rapid! 
 growing place. 
 
 Old Sam's house was a tumble-down, rakis 
 brave-looking old house, with shutters erstwlii 
 painted green. They had once given the win 
 house quite an air, but their painful lapses in tl 
 way of broken slats, and uneven or lost hin<,^ 
 now superimposed upon it a look of indecisio 
 One of the weather-boards at the south com 
 was loose and, freed from the nails' restraii 
 bent outward, as though beckoning the gazer i 
 It was a hospitable old house, but wary, too, tt 
 ornate tin tops of the rain troughs round tl 
 roof giving it a knowing look. 
 
 The native clematis grew better over tt 
 weather-beaten gable than anywhere else 
 
 i< 
 
 eage 
 deep 
 
JUDITH MOOUE. 
 
 17 
 
 e mended 
 
 vidians wer 
 in Syninioiis 
 
 house, just a 
 to thevillai' 
 he houses ( 
 ts owner, 
 in Ovid, tliii 
 ihe characte: 
 an individi 
 more rapid 
 
 down, rakis 
 ters erstwlii 
 ren the who 
 I lapses int! 
 )r lost hingf 
 of indecisio 
 south com 
 lils' restraii 
 ; the gazer i 
 wary, too, tl 
 hs round tl 
 
 ,ter over tt 
 '^here else 
 
 id, and the Provence roses, without any care 
 latever, bloomed better. 
 
 i was as if the house and its environs were 
 king a gallant but losing fight against 
 icroaching time and adverse circumstances. 
 Si) it was with old Sam. 
 
 He was an old man. Lonsf before, when 
 nada's farmers were more than prosperous, 
 when foreign wars kept the price of food grains 
 hi^li, when the soil was virgin and unexhausted, 
 when the military spirit still animated the 
 country, when regulara were in barracks at the 
 n^rest town, when every able man was an 
 eager volunteer, when to drink heavily and swear 
 d^ply upon all occasions marked the man of 
 ease, when the ladies danced in buckled shoes 
 apd chene taffetas, and were wonshipped with 
 cli^valrous courtesy and high-flown sobriquets — 
 i^L those days old Sam Symmons had been 
 kiown as "Gallant Sam Symmons," and had 
 l^n welcomed by many high in the land. 
 He had ever been first in a fight, the last 
 ight at the table, a gay dancer and a courtly 
 t. But now he was glad to get an audience of 
 rant villagei-s to listen to his old tales. For 
 ead of garnering his money he spent it freely, 
 ing ever a generous heart and open hand, and 
 te years he had fallen upon evil times, and 
 
18 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 
 II 
 
 gone steadily down hill. Now he had only a 
 strip of barren acres heavily mortgaged. Hf 
 married late in life the daughter of a country 
 doctor. 
 
 They had one child, a girl, whose mother died 
 when she was four years old. Sam christened 
 his daughter Susanna Matilda. 
 
 In the days of his youth — oh, the halcyon 
 time — these two names had been the names of 
 the hour. The Mabels, Lilys and Rubys of 
 to-day were yet unborn. 
 
 Susanna Waring had been the belle of tlw 
 county, and her lovers were willing to stab 
 their honour upon her pre-eminence. 
 
 Matilda Buchanan had been called " The Rosi 
 of Canada," and when the Consul, her father 
 returned to England, she footed it bravely at th 
 Court of St. James. She married a nobleman 
 there. 
 
 They were long dead, these two beauties 
 Matilda Buchanan had left all her pomp, aiic 
 Susanna Waring had passed away from all liei 
 unhappiness, for she married an oflficer who 
 treated her brutally. Well, well, old Satii 
 Symmons, gallant Sam Symmons then, hai 
 danced with both of them, had kissed MisJ 
 Waring's hand in a minuet, and knocked a man 
 down for saying Matilda Buchanan rouged. 
 
 Ih( 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 19 
 
 liad only a 
 Taged. He 
 : a countiv 
 
 mother diel 
 christenci 
 
 he halcyo 
 e names ot 
 Rubys 0! 
 
 ►elle of tilt 
 g to stake 
 
 " The Res 
 
 her father 
 .vely at tht 
 b noblem 
 
 beauties 
 pomp, aiic 
 rom all hei 
 )fficer wli 
 old Sam 
 then, ha' 
 :issed Mis? 
 ;ked a im 
 mged. 
 
 he did — they all did in those days — but it 
 
 not for the profane lips of man to say 
 
 Thus Sam christened his daughter Susanna 
 
 ilda, and felt he had done his duty by her. 
 
 fter his wife's death, her cousin, a good 
 
 ugh woman in a negative sort of way, kept 
 
 se for him, and brought up the little girl. 
 
 en Susanna was eighteen, this woman died ; 
 
 and his daughter were left alone. 
 
 til 
 
 s has been said, quite a crowd was gathered 
 iofold Sam s kitchen that night in the last week 
 o||May. Tliere was Sam himself, Jack Mac- 
 l^non (a neighbour's hired man and the most 
 n<^d liar in Ovid), Kiram Green, Oscar Randall, 
 an^ Susanna. It may be said here that through- 
 o^ Ovid and its environs Susanna's proper name 
 a dead letter. She was "Sam Symmons' 
 " to all and sundry. The Ovidian mind 
 not prone to poetry ; still, this alliterative 
 iu|liie seemed to have charms for it, and perhaps 
 t|^ poetical element in Ovid only required devel- 
 QJ|ng; and it may be that the sibilant triune 
 x^|ne found favour because it chimed to some 
 mant vein of poesy, unsuspected even by its 
 essors. 
 
 he occasion calling forth the conclave in 
 
 mons' kitchen was simply^ that his old 
 
 e vas very sick ; in fact, dying, as all s&ve 
 
 i 
 
 if 
 
20 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Sam thought. As every man in Ovid prid jj^ 
 himself upon his knowledge of veterinar ^^ 
 science, the whole community stirred when q||| 
 was spread abroad that there was an eduit ht J m 
 patient to practise upon. Hf^ 
 
 Oscar Randall took the dim lantern from t old 
 table and went out. He returned, and siioi 
 awaited his opinion. Am 
 
 " Well, Os ? ' said Jack Mackinnon. «i 
 
 " If that was my horse — which she ain't, Qsei 
 course — I'd shoot her," said Oscar, deliberate •*; 
 
 " Shoot her ! " said Jack Mackinnon ; " sli triec 
 her ! Don't you do it, Mister Symmons. Wland 
 there was old Mr. Pierson wot I worked foifoefcii 
 Essex, he had an old mare, most dreadful miw 
 and most terrible sick — sick for months, (i 
 day we drawed her out in a field, to die wi 
 and so's she'd be easy to bury. Well, by Geoi 
 she got up, and old Mr Pen — him wot I woiijro|| 
 for as has the dairy farm — he came along, & ^ 
 he says to Mr. Pierson, says he, * Wot' 11 you ts ^ 
 for the mare ?' 'Twenty-five dollars,' says ^ 
 old man. 'She's my mare, then,' says Mr 13i 
 ' I'll give you my note for her.' So Mr. Pen t 
 her home and drove her in his milk-cart ; * 
 that spring he sold her two colts for a huii'i 
 dollars apiece, and in the fall he got two huiid 
 dollars for a little black one ; and Mr. Ellis 
 
 lull 
 lil; 
 
 I ' 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 21 
 
 1 Ovid pri<l 
 of veterinar 
 birred when 
 jva.8 an equitf 
 
 itern from ti( 
 irned, and 
 
 tavern, he bought another pair of 'em in 
 
 jr, and gave a sorrel horse and a double 
 
 ir for 'em. I tell you, she was a good old 
 
 that, and we drug her out to die at old 
 
 Pierson's, wot I worked for in Essex, and 
 
 [Mr. Pen, wot keeps the dairy farm, he came 
 
 \g, and says, ' Wot'll you take for the mare ? ' 
 
 mon. 
 
 3h she ain't, 
 
 ar, deliberate 
 
 ph, shut up ! Draw it mild, Jack," said 
 r, irascibly. 
 MSam," said Hiram Green, slowly, " have you 
 kinnon ; " «li'tl^p Epsom salts ^ and ginger ? and saltpetre ? 
 mmona. \Mai|p sweet spirits of nitre ? and rye ? and asa- 
 worked torfoeiJ|da ? and bled her ^ and given her a bran- 
 ►st dreadful iiu^ ? and tried turpentine and salt ? " 
 ; months. ^Yes," said Sam, " I have, and she's no 
 eld, to die wbe||Br." 
 
 kVell, by Geov, ,^»J^ow, Sam," said Green, impressively, " did 
 n wot I woiiy<]||give her a * Black's Condition Powder' ?" 
 ame along, a ^^o, I didn't," said Sam. 
 Wot'll you t;i ^1 thought so," said Green, significantly, 
 ollars,' says ^o you keep them in the store ? " queried 
 
 r Randall, aggressively. He felt aggrieved 
 Hiram, having himself intended to ask 
 t the sweet nitre and turpentine, 
 o you keep them i " he asked again, 
 es, I do," admitted Hiram, "and I've 
 ht one along in case Sam should like to 
 t." 
 
 ,' says Mr lOi 
 So Mr. Pen tw: 
 milk-cart * 
 for a huml 
 yot two hund!^ 
 id Mr. Ellis, V 
 
■!iMlll!t 
 
 22 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 This rather crushed Oscar's insinuation as 
 Hiram's business policy in suggestinf^ tli 
 remedy, so he sat silent, while old Sam ai 
 Hiram Green went out to administer the powd^ 
 
 Jack Mackinnon, to whom silence was i 
 possible, with the freedom of ecfuality previilt mgt 
 
 in Ovid, turned to where Susfe sat mak 
 rick -rack. 
 
 " Wot are you making, Miss Suse ? " he be*;; 
 and without waiting for a reply, contimn 
 " Tliere was Adah Harris, daughter of old m 
 Harris, wot was a carpenter and had a niai 
 garden, wot I worked for in Essex, and she 
 always a-doing things. She was busy ev tion 
 blessed minute, and I tell you she ivas sina ad^i] 
 she married Henry Haynes wot kept a bla( 6, 
 smith's shop, wot I worked for : and when I i 
 there, I left my clothes be, till I got a job, i 
 when I went back after 'em, there was a b 
 shirt, and two paper collars in a box, and i 
 mother's picture gone. Now I knowed prei 
 clost to where them things went — and I'll hi 
 'em back if I have to steal 'em. Why I thoui 
 no end of mother's picture, it was took standi| 
 I wouldn't have lost that picture for a fifty 
 piece, and there 'twas gone and my new s! 
 and two collars I'd only had two months. I 
 them at Henry Haynes' wot married A ^B lr 
 
 e 
 k 
 
 ai 
 
JUDITH MOOUE. 
 
 28 
 
 se ? " he begj 
 
 »ly, continiii 
 
 ,er of old m 
 
 had a mail 
 
 imation as "^Mrris. Old man Harris went carpentering and 
 ggesting til flB)t a market garden, but, pshaw ! Talk about 
 old Sam ai aBashes, why we growed one squash there took 
 er the powii flree men to get it into the waggon, and then 
 ence was ii ^ rolled it up a board — why squashes — " but 
 ility prevalt jt^t then Hiram md old Sam came in. Old Sam 
 fe sat maki: bklw the long-lit lantern out. 
 •* Well, father i " Suse asked. 
 " She's dead," said Sam. 
 " Dead's a door naii," added Hiram. 
 *• No!" said Jack, with exaggerated incredulit3\ 
 ** You don't say ! " said Oscar, in a tone which 
 !X, and she v betrayed a distinct conflict between self-satisfac- 
 as busy e\> ticii and proper sympathy. He could not resist 
 she ivas sina a^ing in a lower key, " I seen as much." 
 b kept a blai Soon the trio of visitors departed. Old 
 and when I Sto was smoking a last pipe when a knock 
 got a job, f caiiie to the door. He opened it to find Andrew 
 ere was a i O^ler without. 
 
 a box, and ** What's this I hear about your mare ? " he 
 ,ed. " Is she dead ? " 
 
 Yos — couldn't seem to do anything for her," 
 old Sam, and brave as he was, his tone was 
 what disheartened. 
 
 Well, it's too bad, she was a good beast, 
 r have my little bay till you look about 
 another," said Andrew. 
 Id Sam's face lightened. " I'll be glad to," 
 
 knowed pre 
 l-and I'll b 
 Why I tho 
 took stand 
 for a fifty 
 I my new si 
 months. I 
 married A 
 
24 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 '•i|ii 
 
 i 
 
 iiilili 
 
 J 
 
 he answered. "There's the orchard field I 
 plougli and I'm behindhand ah-eady, but- 
 his old pride forbidding him to accept to 
 eagerly — " don't you need him ? " 
 
 *• No, not a bit," said Andrew. " Indeed, I 
 be glad if you take him awhile. He's gettin 
 above himself." 
 
 " Well, I'll come along for him in the moruiiu 1 
 then," said Sam, relieved. " What have yo| 
 been doing to-day ? " ^ 
 
 " Sowing buckwheat in the clearing, and wi qmr 
 to town with some mending," replied Andiv *] 
 " I'm just getting home." of it 
 
 " How does the clearing look ? ' asked S.i! 
 " Free of water ? " 
 
 " Yes, it's in good condition." 
 
 " Hiram Green says that there's a boarder 
 to the Morris place. Did you see anythint^' 
 it?" 
 
 "Man or womati?" asked Andrew, vifl 
 sudden interest. 
 
 " Hiram didn't say. I took it was a mar 
 (Andrew's heart sank.) " Suse, did Hiram Giv I 
 say 'twas a man or a woman had come to boii| 
 with old Mrs. Morris ? " 
 
 "He didn't say," called Suse from an inr 
 room. 
 
 " Well, it's a lonely place to choose, isn't it 
 said Andrew. " Good-night, Mr. Symmons. " 
 
 HI 
 
 
 'li 
 
iluird field t 
 •eady, but"- 
 bo accept tc 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 25 
 
 ^Goo(U«J^ht, good-night. Thank you kindly," 
 n old Sam. ^ 
 
 •he old mare was buried next day in one of 
 1 s barren field.s. 
 
 Did you get the shoes off her ? " Mr Home 
 :ed as he encountered old Sam returning from 
 obserjuies with an earthy spade over his 
 ding shoulders. 
 No, I didn't," said Sam. 
 
 Bid you save her tail to make a fly brush ? " 
 (ned Mr. Home. 
 
 ^^ ^No," answered old Sam. "I never thought 
 
 ' ''^"'^ ^\^ ^"" ^^'" ''''''' -«ked his questioner 
 ^^>^^mg over. " Did you skin her ? " 
 
 u 1 m^\. f ''^ ^''"'' *^^«*-oughly humiliated. 
 . a boarderi^elV said M,^ Horne with exubemnt sar- 
 .anythmgm as he shook his reins over his team of 
 
 I 1 m ^ T^f!' "^*'' '^'^^' ^^" ^^» afford such 
 
 Andrew, w- wp;e. I couldn't." 
 
 " Indeed, \\ 
 He's gettinl 
 
 1 the morniii! 
 hat have y 
 
 ring, and wti 
 plied Andrer 
 
 i was a iiiai 
 I Hiram Gi> 
 come to boii,| 
 
 trom an inn 
 
 x)se, isn't it 
 Symmons," ^ 3 
 
 
ipw 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Ir 
 
 th»h: 
 
 "Say where 
 In upper air 
 Dost hope to find fiilfihnent of thy dream ? 
 On what far peak seest thou a nioniing gleam ? 
 Why shall the stars still blind thee unaware ? 
 Why needst thou mount to sing 'i ^ 
 
 Why seek the sun's fierce-tempered glow and gl,ii'* ® *^ 
 Why shall a soulless impulse prompt thy wing '." HcWlrf 
 
 The next clay Andrew Cutler went to conipl 
 the sowing of the clearing. It was somewl 
 chill, and he wore an old velveteen coat wli 
 ribbed surface was sadly rubbed antl faded t/, 
 dingy russet. More than that, it was bual^o 
 through in several round spots })y ashes fin (iqc 
 his pipes and cigars. As usual, Rufus follovoi 
 him, and a very picturescjue pair the two nmssQed 
 
 The air was very clear, the smoke from {quid, 
 village curling bluely up high to the clouds, 
 shred of it lingering about the roof trees. 
 could see some white pigeons flying about 
 church spire ; and off to the right, where i 
 river ran, he could see lines of white flashiiij 
 moment in the sun, then falling beyond n^ b 
 
 w 
 
JUDITH MOOllE. 
 
 27 
 
 ream 1 
 ing gloaui '. 
 
 jnaware 
 
 y 
 
 and those he knew were flashes from the 
 
 ling broasts and wings of the giills. The 
 
 nd ha ' not yet lost the elasticity of spring, 
 
 the new grass had not yet quite overcome 
 
 ttiif dead growth of the year before. 
 
 It was a l)Uoyant day, and Andrew was in a 
 
 buoyant mood. He had not come out without 
 
 the expectation of hearing more singing, and he 
 
 proinised himself he would not wait so long 
 
 before beginning his search for the singer, whom 
 
 I > aiul ylar'*® tiDok to be the boarder at the Morris house. 
 
 ,t thy wing ? However, it seemed as if he was to be dis- 
 
 ippdinted, for^ the sun gi'ew strong, the air 
 
 ent to complwartaa, and no nmsic came to him. 
 
 was somewl Bgs sowing was done, and he was just about 
 
 en coat wliea'l^ng, when, sweet, clear, full, the voice of 
 
 and faded t7eflibrday shook out a few high notes, and then 
 
 it was bualdlig up the wonls of a song began to sing it 
 
 by ashes fin i^ch fashion that Andrew (who knew the 
 
 ufus follow ong well) could hardly believe tiiat the sound 
 
 the two iniseaed from mortal lips — it was so flute-like, so 
 
 loke from iqi^. 
 
 the clouds ^w, Andrew's life had not been one of much 
 
 ation ; still, there were hours in it he did 
 
 re to dwell upon, and the memory of 
 
 one of these unworthy hours suddenly 
 
 him with shame. They say that at 
 
 's approach one sees in a second all the 
 
 •oof trees. 
 
 ing about 
 
 ht, where' 
 
 ^rhite flashin 
 
 1(1- beyond \ 
 
■''/■"f^^mim -v 
 
 i 
 
 28 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 sins of his soul stand fortJi in crimson blazonr^l 
 and perhaps, in that moment, Andrew's old selj 
 died. 
 
 The singer's voice had taken up another soiijl 
 one he did not know — 
 
 " Out from yourself ! 
 l^"'or your broken heart's rest ; 
 For the peace which you crave ; 
 For the end of your quest ; 
 For the love which can save ; 
 
 Come I Come to me I " 
 
 In springino; over the fence and makiij 
 towards where the sound came from, Andrei 
 hardly seemed as if acting upon his oi 
 volition. He had been summoned ; he went. 
 
 After all, there is not much mystery about! 
 girl singing among the trees, yet Andrei 
 heart throbbed with something of that hiislij 
 tumult with which we approach some sad 
 shrine of feeling, or enter upon some m 
 intense delight. 
 
 He soon saw her, standing with her 
 against a rough shell-bark hickory. The cloiij 
 greyness of its rugged stem seemed to inteiis] 
 the pallor and accentuate the delicacy of 
 face. For she was a very pale-faced, frag| 
 lookinc; woman who stood there singino 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 29 
 
 res were wide and wistful, but not unhappy- 
 )king, only pitiable from the intense eagerness 
 ^t seemed to have consumed her. And, in fact, 
 ie was like an overtuned instrument whose 
 ise strings quiver continually. 
 i She was clad in a dull red gown made in one 
 the quaint fashions which la mode has revived 
 late years. It had many hizaiTe broideries 
 blues and black, touched here and there with 
 -Russian embroidery, its wearer would 
 called it. As she sang she made little 
 imatic gestures with slender hands, and at the 
 words of her song's refrain, she stretched 
 rth her arms with a gesture expressing the 
 initude of yearning. 
 IHer face, so mobile as to be in itself speech, 
 mded her words by an inarticulate but power- 
 plea. It was as though she pleaded with 
 ^te to manifest its decree at once, and not hold 
 longer in suspense. And it was for singing 
 5h as this, and for acting such as this, that 
 world had crowned her great — Fools who 
 id not see that the head they crowned was 
 jady drooping beneath its lonely burden, 
 id fools who could not see it was the passion 
 [an empty heart, the yearning of a solitary 
 |il, the unutterable longing of a woman's nature 
 love, that rendered her marvellous voice so 
 
o^ 
 
 30 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 i 
 
 Hill ! 
 
 i i 
 
 passionately and painfully sweet. She herseli: 
 never suspected it ; only she believed what 
 doctors had told her manager and teacher, tli3 
 
 good 
 
 man who wore such bicf diamonds 
 
 am 
 
 used such bad language that she i^iust have rtM 
 quiet, complete and absolute change. So slfl 
 and this man had come to Canada, and ha 
 driven on and on into the heart of the counti 
 till they came to this village in the valley, ar: 
 there she had elected to stay — a caprice n 
 nearly so extravagant, and certainly more swe 
 and wholesome than the freaks indulged in 
 some others of her ilk. So here she was, lyii^ 
 ■perdit whilst her picture was in every paper 
 the country, with marvellous tales of her tii 
 umphs abroad and whispers of the wonderfj 
 treat in store for the music-lovers of Ameritl 
 And her little, good-hearted manager flashed o| 
 his biggest diamonds, swore his worst oat| 
 hoped the child was getting strong, and nei| 
 dreamed he was killing her. 
 
 TliQ " Great God Pan " was all unconscious' 
 his cruelty, was he not, when he fashioned 
 pipe out of a river reed ? And as he bl| 
 through it the music of the gods, doubts 
 had good reason for thinking that ntver ix| 
 had been honoured like unto this reed. 
 
 There are moments in real life, so exotic | 
 
 liiiiilim 
 liipililii 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 31 
 
 She hersei 
 ^ed what tli 
 
 teacher, tli| 
 iamonds an- 
 ast have re^ 
 nge. So si 
 ,da, and ha 
 t the countr 
 e valley, ar 
 a caprice ii 
 iy more swo 
 idulged ill! 
 he was, lyii 
 very paper 
 58 of her t: 
 ,he wonder! 
 :s of Amerit 
 grer flashed 
 worst oat; 
 
 ig, and lie 
 
 unconscious 
 fashioned 
 i as he m 
 ;ods, doubtlt 
 at never r 
 is reed, 
 e, so exotic 
 
 ie lives into which they have entered, that one 
 
 jrdly realizes the verity of them till long after, 
 
 len the meaning of his own actions struggles 
 
 )ugh the mists and confronts him with their 
 
 isequences. In such moments the most ab- 
 
 rd things in the world seem quite in order, 
 
 the commonplace actions of life assume 
 
 )tesque importance. So it is in dreams, 
 
 lich reconcile with magnificent disregard of 
 
 abilities, the most wonderful conditions of 
 
 [•son, place and time. Well — 
 
 ** Dreams are true whilst they last 
 And do we not live in dreams ? " 
 
 iThis is Andrew's only excuse for accepting so 
 mptly the musical invitation extended with 
 ih feeling ! 
 
 * I have come," he said, half dreamily — step- 
 g out from the shelter of the trees, 
 he pale-faced singing siion changed to a 
 Prtleu, blushing girl, and in swift sequence 
 ^drew's rapt gaze altered to one not altogether 
 hout daring. 
 
 Oh, so I see," she half gasped, tiien laughed 
 
 right, looking at him with shy eyes, but 
 
 tinously curving lips. The laugh robbed the 
 
 e of its last illusion of mysterj'. 
 
 ndrew advanced, raising his old felt hat 
 
 I 
 
rrr«f" 
 
 '"Mill)/: 
 
 I inii 
 
 v\"' 
 
 d2 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 with an instinct of deference that made tli 
 commonplace courtesy charming. 
 
 " I hope I didn't scare you," he said ; " but 
 was working in a field near here yesterday uu 
 heard you singing. To-day I made up m 
 mind to find you. Do you mind ? " 
 
 " Do you know who I am ? " she asked. 
 
 " No," he answered ; " but I suspect you ai 
 the * Boarder up at old Mis' Morris's.' " 
 
 "Oh, so a rumour has gone abroad in ik 
 land ? Yes, I am the boarder ; one would thini; 
 a boarder was a kind of animal." 
 
 " Yes," assented Andrew. " Old Sam Synnnon 
 said he wasn't sure if it was a man or a woman 
 
 " I won't be called an 'It'; my name is Jiulit 
 Moore." 
 
 "How do you do, Miss Judith Moore. )l 
 name is Andrew Cutler." 
 
 He had come close to her by this time, ai 
 as he looked down upon her he began to feel i 
 irritating sense of shyness creep over him. f?l 
 was s\jch a fantastic little figure in his eye 
 And what a queer frock she had on ! Siirei 
 on any one else it would be horrid. It didi 
 look so bad on her, though ; and what a belt t 
 her to wear, this great burden of metal- 
 flexible band of silver with, it seemed to Im 
 dozens of silver ornaments hanging to it 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 33 
 
 Lt made tli* 
 
 said; "but' 
 esterdav .111 
 [lade up 111 
 
 asked, 
 pect you ill 
 
 S. ^^ 
 
 >road in tli 
 1 would thiiii 
 
 >am Sy 111111011 
 or a woman 
 ame is Judit 
 
 Moore. \ 
 
 his time, ai 
 ran to feel ;i 
 er him. ISl 
 in his evt", 
 on ! Surel* 
 d. It didii 
 hat a belt f( 
 of metals 
 imed to hill 
 ing to it t 1 
 
 ins of varying lengths ! What nonsense ! 
 
 seemed to weigh her down. (Andrew was 
 up in chatelaines.) Then her feet! But 
 
 e his masculine hoi"se sense and the instinct 
 
 protection which had awakened in him at 
 
 first startled look from her big. wide eyes, 
 
 e him overstep all polite bounds and render 
 
 self odious to Miss Moore. 
 
 Why in the world do you wear shoes like 
 
 se ? " he asked. " And such stockings ! and 
 ding on that damp moss ! You had better 
 
 right into the house and get on decently 
 
 vy shoes." 
 
 his was too much. Miss Judith Moore 
 
 cied her own feet, and fancied open-work 
 hcse, and high-heeled wisps of shoes. Most 
 11, she liked the combination. In fact, in a 
 
 mless little way, she rather liked people to 
 
 e a chance to appreciate these beauties, and 
 
 the very moment Andrew spoke, she had 
 
 d his downward glance and felt a righteous 
 
 e settle upon her. To be well shod ^s such 
 
 al support, and, lo, this heathen, this wretch, 
 
 abominable, conceited, brazen young farmer, 
 
 actually dared to suggest a change ; more 
 
 ^n that, he had spoken of "stockings" — 
 sting ! 
 with a dignity that reduced Andrew to 
 
 o- 
 
 • 
 
 
 
 JA 
 
liiil 
 
 
 llilllli"! 
 
 
 iiliii! 
 
 34 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 despair, even whilst it roused his ire (she ws 
 so slight to be sach a " defiant little cat" he tol 
 himself), she drew hei-self up, in a manner ton 
 the traditional Duchess credit, and left hit 
 saying : 
 
 " Since you don t approve of my feet I'll tail 
 them out of your way." 
 
 " You mean they'll take you," said Andre" 
 wrathfully conscious that she was, to use a ga 
 old figure of speech, "turning up her nose 
 him." 
 
 " You are extremely rude," she called back, 
 
 "And you are a bad-tempered little thing, 
 answered. 
 
 So he and his siren, calling names at ea 
 other, parted for the first tinic. . 
 
 Miss Moore went into the little ap[ 
 orchard behind the Morris homestead, a: 
 watched a tiny chipmunk gathering loai 
 to line its nest — at least Judith supposed 
 was for that. At any rate, it picked t 
 the dry brown leaves from beneath a iiiiij 
 tree near the gate, sat up on its hind legs, ii; 
 pleated the leaf into its mouth deftly. It k 
 two or three at a time, and looked very coiiiic 
 with the brown leaves sticking out like fans 
 each side of its face. She laughed so long at 
 loudly at this, that Mrs. Morris came to the dt 
 to see if she had hysterics. 
 
 |S1 
 
 tl 
 
ire (she v;. 
 e cat" he toi 
 manner to i 
 and left hit 
 
 f feet I'll ta| 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 85 
 
 
 said Andrer 
 , to use a gotl 
 
 ip her noseil 
 
 called back, 
 ittle thiny,'!| 
 
 lames at em 
 
 little app 
 )mestead, aij 
 hering leav 
 1 supposed 
 
 picked 0; 
 eath a iiiafj 
 hind legs, a: 
 ftly. It to 
 i very comici 
 it like fans I 
 ed so long ai 
 ne to the do: 
 
 t •' I met a young man in the woods, Mrs. 
 )rris," said Judith, going up to lier ; " a rude, 
 ^g-legged young man, named C/utler. Who 
 le ? 
 
 For the land's sake !" said Mrs. Morris. " Did 
 meet Andrew Cutler ? I warrant he'd be 
 |k down if he heard you say that. He's 
 bught a good deal of by some people, being 
 [the school board and the council, for all he's 
 larried and young ; but he's too big feeling 
 suit me ! And he don't profess religion, and is 
 jver sniokin' and shootin*, and he's got a crank 
 f books — took that off his mother ; she was a 
 fers. They was U. E. Loyalist stock ; got 
 ^ir farms for nothing, of course, and hung on 
 bhem. Andrew owns a fine place, and he's 
 of cranks about college farming. Well, 
 ig-legged ' — that's a good one ! He is long- 
 red, there's no mistake about that. All the 
 krses are tall. There's Hannah Myers as 
 ^ps house for Andrew, and she's tall as my 
 man, and — for the land's sake, that milk's 
 ping over ! " and Mrs. Morris departed indoors, 
 sently, out flew two chickens, a collie dog, 
 a cat, wild-eyed and spitting, from which 
 IS Judith diagnosed that Mrs. Morris had 
 le " things " fly around when she got inside 
 miracle she was an adept at performing. 
 
•Hill, 
 
 !! 
 
 i II! !! 
 
 IIBII 
 
 86 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 Andrew went home to dinner, and came bad 
 in the afternoon to harrow down the grain li 
 had sowed. Mr. Morris came out to talk t 
 him. 
 
 " Who is the girl you've got boarding wit 
 you ?" asked Andrew. 
 
 " Oh," said Mr. Morris, " I don't just riglitl 
 know, but she's a singing woman of some kind 
 in the opery, she said. She and a little blacli 
 a- vised chap came driving up the lane one da 
 last week, and before I just rightly could iiuil; 
 out what they were, he was driving oft* and si 
 was there for keeps. Next day there caine 
 \/hole waggon load of trunks. Going to sta 
 all summer, she says. She's greatly took ii 
 with the country. She wanted to tie ribboi 
 on the cows' horns, and is bound to learn t 
 make butter. She was going to churn the otlii 
 day, and worked the dash about a dozen turn 
 and then she scolded right sharp at the buttt 
 for not coming Then she got a spoon and tastt 
 the cream, and she up and says to Mother, * Whi ^ 
 Mrs. Morris, you've given me sour cream 
 churn !' and she was real huffy. She wouldD^ 
 believe that sweet butter came off sour creaii 
 and she just sat, and never took her eye off tlia 
 churn till Mother was done with it. She wai 
 bound she wasn't going to be fooled. She's m 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 87 
 
 lid came bad 
 the grain h 
 it to talk t 
 
 K>ardiiig wit 
 
 b just riglitl 
 )i' some kimJ 
 I little blacli 
 lane one da 
 iy could iiiut i 
 ig off and sli I 
 there came 
 jroing to sta 
 atly took ii 
 o tie ribboi 
 to learn t 
 lurn the otlif' 
 dozen time* 
 at the buttt 
 )on and taste 
 d^other, • Wh) 
 3ur cream t 
 She wouldn 
 r sour creaii 
 r eye off tha 
 it. She wa 
 d. She's rea 
 
 ^art some ways, though, only she don't eat a 
 
 lie, and Mother's dreadful afraid her religion 
 
 (kind of heathenish. She was looking out the 
 
 )r the other day, and she says, says she, ' It's 
 
 irfect idol !' Mother never let on, but soon 
 
 [she went away Mother came out and looked 
 
 mt, and there was nothing like an idol, except 
 
 Lybe them big queer-marked stones I got down 
 
 the lime springs. What did you call 'em ?" 
 I" Petrifactions," said Andrew. 
 *"Yes. Well, Mother always had 'em set up 
 linst the door steps kind of tasty, but Mother 
 I't the one to have no sich temptations around 
 I any one's way, if they be given to sich, so she 
 at rolled 'em along and dropped 'eni into the 
 Item." 
 
 [r. Morris was notoriously long-winded, and 
 
 letimes Andrew was not over-eager to en- 
 mter him, but this day Andrew was more 
 in civil. 
 
 f* What's she here for, anyhow ? " asked he. 
 f*Her health; she's all drug down. Mother 
 rs, and she's full of cranks. Yesterday she 
 mid weed in the garden, and she started out 
 [th as good a pair of gloves on as you ever 
 Jii. Well, she stayed and stayed, and Mother 
 went out to see if she wanted to come in, 
 
 luse Mi*s. Home was there (them Homes are 
 
38 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 iiliiiiiiiiiil 
 
 a bad lot !) and she wanted to visit a spell. Wel!^ 
 she'd got up about two handfuls of chick-weed 
 and then sat down and gone sound asleep. Al^ 
 wore out, Mother says." 
 
 After a bit Mr. Morris departed. He haJ 
 detailed with great gusto all the "news" told b| 
 Mrs. Home, or deduced by himself from her conj 
 versation ; but Andrew's interest flagged, so preJ 
 ently Mr. Morris went on his way, if not it 
 joicing, at least relieved, for it was a boon tj 
 him to get a good listener. 
 
 Andrew went home reflectively. His lasj 
 conscious thought that night must have been il 
 some way relative to Miss Judith Moore, her feel 
 and her temper, for he muttered to himself, hali| 
 sleeping, half waking : " Her eyes didn't looi 
 like the eyes of a bad-tempered girl;" then "The| 
 were so little I could have held both of thein i| 
 one hand ; " later still, " I was pretty bad to \\m 
 about the shoes, women are such dear littl| 
 fools." Then this judicially-minded young maiii 
 slept the sleep of the just. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 " If thou art worn and hard beset 
 With sorrows that thou wouldst forget ; 
 If thou wouldst read a lesson, that will keep 
 Thy heart from fainting and thy soul from sleep, 
 Go to the woods and hills ; no teara 
 Dim the sweet looks that nature wears." 
 
 'he village of Ovid lay in a valley hollowed 
 of an otherwise level country into a shallow 
 in. It called those who dwelt to the north 
 |it, Mountain Hayseeds; and those to the 
 bh of it, Swamp Angels — compliments re- 
 led in kind, for the youths of the sections 
 flattered by Ovidian attention always 
 kred to the villagers as Ovid Idiots, 
 ror the most part the houses in Ovid clus- 
 \d closely together. Some few of them were 
 ^tered half way up the sloping hill-sides, 
 
 these dwellings were all built facing the 
 ige proper, and besides being absurdly fore- 
 kiiened aiwaj^s wore a deprecating look as if 
 
 ;ly conscious of their invidious positionn. 
 
 ie hills of Ovid were not very formidable, 
 
/ ' )" l , 'ff 
 
 liiiii 
 
 ! il J I i 1 1 1 1 1 h 
 
 40 
 
 JUDITH MOOUF. 
 
 and from a short distance off, say, from And^ 
 Cutler's clearing, one could see over their civ 
 the gabies of the village. 
 
 There were but two long streets in the villa 
 denominated the Front Street and the Ha 
 Street. 
 
 Upon the Front Street stood the two churcM 
 facing each other, being, however, only in pliyjj 
 cal juxtaposition, for spiritually they were us i^ 
 as the poles apart. The one was a Metlio. 
 Church, and bore high above its door the 
 scription, Eva Methodist Church, A.D. M 
 This legend mast once have been very glarii 
 seemingly jet black upon a white surface,! 
 some painter, well disposed to mankind e( 
 dently, had swept his brush laden with wli 
 paint over this inscription. The result was gn 
 ful to the eye, even if it did give rise to sol 
 uncertainty as to what the words actually wtj 
 Great truths often come home to one intuitive! 
 perhaps that is how every one knew what 
 writ above that door. 
 
 The Baptist Church was stone, and bore oil 
 a date, 1854, A.D., but it rejoiced in a tin-ct 
 spire that glimmered gayly in the sunliglitj 
 shone cold and chill beneath the wintry mo 
 
 Between these two churches and the menil^ 
 thereof there was no animosity, but there wa 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 41 
 
 from Au<li> 
 jr their crev 
 
 in the villa 
 nd the Ba| 
 
 ! two chui'cl 
 
 only in pliy 
 
 ley were as 
 
 8 a Method 
 
 ^ door the 
 
 h, A.D. IS^ 
 
 a very glari 
 
 te surface. 11 
 
 mankind t 
 
 en with w 
 
 jsult was gra 
 
 e rise to soi 
 
 actually w 
 
 ne intuitivi 
 
 new whatv 
 
 and bore oil 
 ll in a tin-cl 
 [he sunlight] 
 wintry mo 
 I the mem^ 
 mt there wa 
 
 )ling." A " feeling " is one of those ini;anpf- 
 elusive things, of which no acceptable 
 lition can be given; but every new-comer 
 kid grew into that " feeling " before he had 
 there a week. Perhaps some perception of 
 peculiar condition may be gathered by con- 
 ing the various improvemexits which took 
 in the two churches during one autumn in 
 
 ley were inaugurated by Hiram Green, who 
 mted a stone tie-post to the Methodist 
 ih. Hiram kept the village grocery store, 
 |had accepted six stone tie-posts in lieu of 
 lin goods supplied to the boarding-house at 
 jtone quarries. The boarding-house keeper 
 taken them in default of cash from his 
 '^man boarders. Hiram erected three of 
 )sts before his shop door, at such short dis- 
 ss from each other that it precluded the 
 up of more than two horses at a time, and 
 only to the end posts and facing' each 
 Having adorned the path before his 
 with two others, he, at the instigation of 
 rife, presented the sixth to the Methodist 
 5h. This post was adorned with an iron 
 fct the top and a somewhat frisky damsel 
 ie carving on the side, 
 ras a matter of grave consideration whether 
 4 
 
 
[ ' I ' l,;, ' , ' ) !— 
 
 M 
 
 42 
 
 JUDITE MOORE. 
 
 'iMi,,,,,, 
 
 this carving should be turned to the street 
 towards the sidewalk, it being debatable 
 which position she would do the most harij 
 She was finally turned towards the stretj 
 upon the reasonable supposition that persoij 
 driving past would pass more swiftly than pel 
 sons walking; hence, their exposure to ei| 
 would be briefer. To further mitigate tlj 
 demoralizing effect of this bit of stonewoij 
 Solomon Ware took a chisel and carefully oblij 
 erated the outlines of the figure, missing oii| 
 one foot, which, in terpsichorean fashion, point 
 skyward in a meaningless, disjointed way froj 
 a chaos of chisel marks. 
 
 The week following, the Baptists put up ti 
 wooden tie-posts, each surmounted by an iiv| 
 horse's head. 
 
 Two weeks later a block of wooden stel 
 appeared beside the stone tie-post, to facilit 
 those driving to church in alighting from,; 
 mounting to, their conveyances This was 
 Wednesday. By the Sunday following, its dup 
 Gate stood between the wooden tie-posts, \vi| 
 the additional glory of drab paint. 
 
 A month later a new fence encircled 
 Methodist temple, ar 1 the Baptisi/ sanctuaj 
 was re-shingled. 
 
 As the autumn advanced the Methdl 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 4S 
 
 lurch had sheds for its horses erected in the 
 
 ^r of the church. Ere the first snow flew, the 
 
 )tist Church was similarly adorned, and its 
 
 rejoiced in elaborate scroll work brackets 
 
 [the dividing posts. 
 
 In November the Baptists held a series of 
 pval meetings, and the Methodists commenced 
 reekly service of song. At New Year's the 
 Jthodists raised their pastor's salary fifty dol- 
 a year. In February the Baptists held a 
 norial service, and had four ministers preach 
 m one Sunday. It is true, as Hester Green 
 Ik occasion to remark, that two of them were 
 [y students, but the Baptist Church had vindi- 
 jd the priority of its establishment, and 
 id on its laurels, — besides the spring work 
 coming on. 
 
 ^he speech of the vidians was not in any 
 se a dialect peculiar to themselves. There 
 of course, certam words and phrases 
 fch were regular stand-bys, and from which 
 ^vidian speech was free. For example, when 
 ^vidian was out of conversational matter, he 
 it let the talk die away, or the argument 
 to pieces whilst waiting for the tardy ideas 
 us friends to evolve themselves. Far from it. 
 [simply said, in a tone suitable to the occasion, 
 ill, it beats all ! " Closer scrutiny will reveal 
 

 ii |i 
 
 Ilii 
 
 lliil 
 
 44 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 the resources of this phrase. Did an Ovidi^ 
 attend a funeral ? Then this expression formei 
 the chief staple of his conversation, and i| 
 enunciation ran the gamut of emotion, frorl 
 grief to amazement. Did an O vidian hear| 
 more than usually spicy piece of gossip ? Th^ 
 he ejaculated the same phrase in a tone of scatl 
 dalized enjoyment. Was a subject upon whi| 
 he could not, or would not, give a direct opini(| 
 under discussion ? Then this non-commiti 
 formula answered ''^mirably, entailing no aft^ 
 responsibility upon the speaker, and yet giviJ 
 him a pleasant sense of conversational durl 
 properly performed. 
 
 There were a few idioms, also, dear to ^ 
 Ovidian mind. To be " ambitious " meant simp| 
 to be energetic ; to be " big feeling," " stuck uft 
 or "toney," meant to be proud (in the sense 
 despising one's neighbours); to " conjure," win 
 the accent strongly upon the first syllal 
 meant to think over a ti^m^. 
 
 Apart, however, from ii i' :on or two of the 
 lingual idiosyncrasies, the Ovidian speech w; 
 the ordinary English of Canadian rural districi , 
 delivered in a peculiar drawling, nasal stj 
 with a clinging to the last syllable of a wo 
 and the last word of a sentence. The only i i 
 terest Ovidians had, apart from Ovid and 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 45 
 
 an Ovidia 
 jssion fornix 
 bion, and is 
 motion, fro 
 idian hearj 
 Tossip? Ty 
 tone of scai| 
 t upon whit 
 direct opinio 
 lon-committi 
 iling no aft^ 
 nd yet givii| 
 sational M 
 
 ), dear to ti| 
 meant simp| 
 ' " stuck Ml 
 the sensed 
 conjure," m 
 irst 
 
 r two of theij 
 n speech vi; 
 :ural district 
 nasal stylj 
 )le of a woii 
 The only 
 Ovid and 
 
 rellers therein, was in watching the progress 
 
 [the world, as shown by the trend of Cana- 
 
 politics ; and as Ovid they had always 
 
 bh them, and the world only when the weekly 
 
 jrs came in, it was natural they should know 
 
 [id best — and they did. Every one's pet hobby, 
 
 jry one's worst weakness, every one's ambition, 
 
 3ry one's circumstances, everyone's antipathies, 
 
 5ry one's preferences, every one's record and 
 
 lily record — all this was known and well 
 
 )wn, aye, even to the third generation back. 
 
 Jut of all vidians none knew so much of 
 
 fellows* history as did old Sam Symmons. 
 
 one attribute that assured Sam a welcome 
 
 [erever he went, was his knowledge of the 
 
 leration passed away, the fathers of the pres- 
 
 Ovidians ; not that his stories were flatter- 
 
 (far from it), but they were never ill-natured, 
 
 least upon Sam's part. It was true they were 
 
 [strative of the weak points of their heroes 
 
 ler than their virtues, but then Sam did not 
 
 :e history ; he only repeated it, and he was 
 
 impartial. So where a dozen Ovidians 
 
 \e gathered together, there Sam would be in 
 
 [midst. 
 
 fhere was a perilous stimulus about their 
 lipation. He was sure to evolve some per- 
 il reminiscence from the chaotic mass of his 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 old memories, and each of the expectant aud;| 
 ors felt that his forebears might be the subject^ 
 it. When Sam did choose a victim, and plung, 
 into some old tale about his grandfather 
 father, then all the others drew in their brea 
 with swift enjoyment of the various points 
 the story. There was something Druidical d 
 bard-like in this oral handing down of histor| 
 and it differed from more pretentious history | 
 one respect. Sam's stories might be oft-| 
 peated, but he never altered a syllable, iiev 
 deepened the shading to suit some different ell 
 ment in his audience, never swerved from k 
 first intent of the recital, never slurred the tru| 
 to let any one off lightly. Perliaps the res 
 Sam's stories preserved their identity so \v| 
 was because they were taci^^.y copyrighte| 
 no one ever tried to tell them but himself, 
 indeed they would not have sounded the sm 
 from other lips, for Sam spoke of the past| 
 one having authority. 
 
 The loss of his old mare was quite a serio| 
 one to Sam, and he went about a shade mo: 
 irresolute than he was before. Poor old Sat 
 He had had so many blows, big and little, fiv 
 fate, that it is not to be wondered at if he (i 
 become a little haphazard in his methods 
 work and business. 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 47 
 
 pectant audi 
 5 the subject^ 
 L, and plung 
 randfather 
 1 their breai 
 LOUS points 
 Druidical ai 
 vn of histori 
 ous history 
 ht be oft-^ 
 yllable, nevl 
 e different el| 
 •ved from t| 
 irred the trul 
 ips the res 
 ntity so \^ 
 
 copyright*! 
 
 himself, ai| 
 ided the m 
 )f the past^ 
 
 juite a seriol 
 a shade nio| 
 bor old Sal 
 id little, frft| 
 d at if he d : 
 methods '^ 
 
 It is hardly worth while making plans when 
 le evil chance seems to thwart them every 
 le ; even if one works till his stiff old limbs 
 trembling with fatigue, it doesn't seem to 
 Ike much headway against adverse circum- 
 Inces ; and when fate buffets down even the 
 )ngest guard, how can one poor old man fend 
 its blows ? But if his brave old heart was 
 iken a little within him, Sam still turned a 
 )lute face to the foe. The week after the 
 re's death, and before he had got used to the 
 [nd horae he had bought to replace her, he 
 md his way to Hiram Green's store, 
 'he talk turned on drinking. 
 I" Yes," said Sam, "there's many a way of 
 inking" — in a reminiscent tone — "many a way ! 
 |hen I was young, there were three brothers 
 ith their three wives, doing settlement duty on 
 [grant of land given one of the officsrs, in 
 ice County. Well, they were fine big fellows, 
 [d their wives were big, strapping, healthy 
 )men. Strong, too, they were, and had good 
 Igment. Why, one of them went one morning 
 the wood-pile to get some wood, and when 
 came back there was a wolf, lean and hungry 
 )r it had been a bitter winter), standing over 
 |e cradle where her baby lay. Now, what did 
 do ? Run away and yowl ? Not she. Hit 
 
48 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 Hi!! 
 
 lijiMIt!! illji 
 
 iliiili 
 
 it a clip with a billet of wood, and killed 
 where it stood. Well, the lads used to drive 
 forty miles with an ox team for provisions, an 
 each would bring his keg of rye back with hiiij 
 but the women always drank more than thej 
 share, and it got to be that there was mostly 
 meals ready when the lads got back from fellii 
 the timber. So the lads hit on the plan of tyiii" 
 the kegs to the roof, where the women could m 
 get at them, and they went away well please 
 with themselves. But they were finely take! 
 down when they got back, for the women slicj 
 holes in the kegs, and caught the whiskey in| 
 washtub. Yes, yes, there's many a way 
 drinking. There was your wife's grand-uncll 
 now " — suddenly becoming personal in his Tneiii| 
 ory, and addressing Hiram — " 'twas when he m 
 running for reeve the first time, and he caiiil 
 into Fossil's tavern, and not seeing James I w I 
 son, the younger, and me, where we sat on tlij 
 settle by the door, he went up to the bar to gtl 
 a drink. He called for whiskey. He had lil 
 drink and laid down the five cents to pay for ii J 
 Now, 'twas his way to fill his glass very fill: 
 and Fossil, being a close man, was very groutji 
 at that. So, out of the five cents, he pushe| 
 back a penny. 'Here,' says he, 'is youi 
 change, Mr. Mowbray. I don't charge as muc^ 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 49 
 
 md killed 
 i to drive ( 
 ovisions, aii 
 jk with hii; 
 'e than tin. 
 18 mostly t 
 from fellin 
 plan of tyiii 
 len could ni 
 well please 
 finely take; 
 I women she 
 whiskey iii; 
 Y a way 
 grand-uncll 
 
 in his nieiil 
 when he wa 
 ind he cam 
 
 James I ff| 
 
 3 sat on tli| 
 
 he bar to gt 
 
 He had lii 
 to pay forii 
 ss very ful 
 
 very grout; 
 3, he pushe^ 
 e, * is you 
 ,rge as mucb 
 
 iolesale as I do for single drinks.' Your 
 
 Fe's grand-uncle did not like that. *Twas just 
 
 Fore the polling day when he got overtaken in 
 
 [uor one night at old Squire Fraser's. 'Twas 
 
 )right moonlight night, and some of the lads 
 
 iiig home late, also, heard a noise at the village 
 
 np, which, coming at, they saw was your 
 
 Fe's grand-uncle, pulling at tlie pump-handle, 
 
 saying, with many oaths, 'Come home. 
 
 jk ; come home. There will be a sore broil 
 
 thee if Mrs. Mowbray see thee. Come home, 
 
 \ ; come home.' To which persuasion he put 
 
 ly threats and moral advisements to Jack to 
 
 je from liquor. Jack was his nephew, a quiet 
 
 ith, being bred to the pulpit. Well, the boys 
 
 hold of both these tales, and when the vot- 
 
 came on, they would seize at anything, a 
 
 5, a post, or the fence, when your wife's grand- 
 
 sle came by, and, straining at it manfully, 
 
 lid beseech Jack to come home, using many 
 
 ral persuasions and many oaths also, as he 
 
 done to the pump, and feigning to weep sore 
 
 ^r the stubbornness of Jack's heart, Then 
 
 would say, 'Come home, Jack, and I'll buy 
 
 a di'ink wholesale at good, generous Master 
 
 ill's.' Yes, yes" — Sam's voice began to 
 
 iken — "yes, there's many a way of drinking." 
 
 ?here was a pause. No one ever commented 
 
50 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 I! iLaiil 
 
 I i 
 
 upon Sam's stories ; there was no need, 
 deprecate them would be to stir up, who knJ 
 what, of oblique reflection upon one's ancestoij 
 For any of those not immediately interested! 
 interfere would be to invite Sam's attention! 
 their cases. 
 
 " Did you hear that the school-teacher leavj 
 next week ? " asked Hiram. 
 
 " No. Why ? " asked Jack Mackinnon, glad| 
 a chance of hearing his own voice. 
 
 " Because he says he can't afford to keep 
 self htre and his wife in Toronto on tlin 
 hundred a year." 
 
 " Then he'd better get," said old Mrs. Slick, 
 she took the packet of cream of tartar Hiii 
 was weighing. " He'd better get." She hobbll 
 out, giving malevolent sniffs at the thought] 
 the teacher's extravagant ideas. 
 
 "Yes, he's going," continued Hiram. "Bl 
 going, and there's a school meeting to-morro^ 
 
 Andrew Cutler, Hiram Green and Ben Braddj 
 were school trustees, and it had occurred 
 each of them that Sam Symmons* Suse woi| 
 be sure to apply for the position. She heli| 
 county certificate permitting her to teach 
 three years. 
 
 " I wonder," Andrew said that morning to I 
 aunt, Miss Hannah Myers, " I wonder if Sij 
 will know enough to apply for the place." 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 51 
 
 Not she! too empty-headed," said Miss Myers, 
 
 jkly. " I'll go down this afternoon and tell 
 
 what 1 think of her, and make her apply." 
 
 Do," said Andrew, heartily. 
 
 mdrew liked old Sam, and he was a special 
 ^ourite of the old man's. Many a long story of 
 jtion fights and tricks, secrets Sam kept even 
 \, of how votes had been gained and lost, 
 
 ly tales of drinking bouts and more gallant 
 ventures, did old Sam retell for Andrew's 
 lefit. 
 
 indrew was not at all worried by Miss Myers* 
 
 jqueness of speech. He knew how kind she 
 to everybody in her own vinegary way. 
 
 I, angular, hatchet-faced and sharp- tongued, 
 
 mah Myers had a heart full of love for every 
 \ng creature that needed help, on % * the beg- 
 at her door had first abuse and then a 
 lling.' 
 
 Lud how well the tramps knew the way up 
 lat quaint old kitchen door, with the uneven 
 
 -stones set in a little court-yard round it! 
 
 ible always covered with glistening tin milk- 
 ^s stood outside, and many a good meal had 
 
 gentlemen of the road had off that table; 
 ^ed vigorously by Miss Myers whilst they 
 the tirade only interrupted by sudden 
 leys she made to find perhaps a pair of 
 
 ''^' - ^ 
 
 
 ^}h''- 
 
52 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 :> I 
 
 ^liiii 
 
 mil 
 
 m 
 
 
 socks, a shirt, or something else she saw tluj 
 needed ; now and then a surly tramp woull 
 answer her back, and she would laugh at hia 
 in her grim way and say, " Hear the inan| 
 Why, don't you see, I like to scold 
 much as you like to eat; so if you enjol 
 the one, why mayn't I the other ? " Upo 
 one memorable occasion an ungrateful tramjl 
 (and however much he may be idealized nowa 
 days, there are instances of the ingratitude 
 tramps) attempted to impose upon her, thinkin] 
 her alone. He had, unfortunately for hiii 
 reckoned without his host. Andrew suddenlj 
 appeared upon the scene, seized his trampshil 
 by the most convenient portion of his attire, aiij 
 dropped him with quiet, but forcible, precisioj 
 into a somewhat unappetizing duck pond nef^ 
 by, giving him at the same time a picturesquJ 
 but somewhat profane, bit of advice. The felloj 
 took himself off, and Andrew turned- his atten 
 tion to poor Miss Hannah, who was quiverir 
 and trembling and crying as the meekest aD 
 mildest woman might do. Miss Myers' tonsil 
 was a deception, and, as a matter of fact, that as 
 her vinegary aspect were the only defences sh 
 had against imposition, for whilst always vaunij 
 ing her hard-heartedness, she was, in reality, th 
 most gullible of women. 
 
 'il^lli 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 58 
 
 I! 
 
 She never could resist a pedlar ; she always 
 
 )u<(ht their trashy wares. And once, she 
 
 )ver forgot it, she burdened herself with a lot 
 
 cheap brassy hairpins and extraordinary glass 
 
 jast pins. That purchase fairly haunted her. 
 
 it rid of it she couldn't. Did she try to bum 
 
 [? Some one came and caught her. Did she 
 
 tend to throw it away ? She did not dare, 
 
 le knew some one would find it. She did 
 
 mage finally to find a watery hiding-place f jr 
 
 |in the horse pond. Even then its meretricious 
 
 irkle assailed her from the mud when the 
 
 id went dry. She related this to Judith 
 
 )re, and told her with all soberness that she 
 
 )uld always pity a murderer trying to get rid 
 
 the corpse. 
 
 |As Mrs. Morris had told Judith, Miss Myers 
 
 IS of U. E. Loyalist stock. She might have 
 
 led that the Cutlers were also. Both families 
 
 been given grants of land in Canada. The 
 
 )perty in the Myers family had been divided 
 
 sub-divided amongst a big family connec- 
 
 Miss Myers had a little fifty -acre farm as 
 
 share of it ; it lay some fifteen miles from 
 
 U 
 
 Lndrew's farm at Ovid had descended to him 
 )ugh his father and grandfather, old Captain 
 bier, the stern old fighter whose sword, with 
 
 dm 
 
 n- 
 
 — i 
 
£4 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 II ii 
 
 iHilill 
 
 its woven crimson sash, hung in the hall 
 Andrew's house, with some quaint old pistoj 
 and a clumsy musket, relics from Canadia 
 battle fields. Besides the property in OviJ 
 Andrew owned another fine farm and a wid 
 stretch of woodland in Muskoka. These proi)et| 
 ties accrued to him through the death of some 
 hiL father's relatives. So Andrew was very w( 
 off", in a modest way. The Muskoka property l)oij 
 much fine timber, and an enthusiastic "prJ 
 spector " assailed Andrew, month in and moiitj 
 out, with tales of the "indications" of minerals 1 
 had found beneath the ferns and mosses of lii| 
 Muskoka woods. But Andrew was content wifi 
 them as they ^re, with the trees growiiij 
 solemnly upwi.. ^, aspiring to the blue ; tli 
 wandering streams, a network of silver tracenj 
 starred here and there by broad discs where on 
 widened to a little placid lake or where two i 
 more streams, meeting, gushed together, 
 sound of their soft confluence and the soughir 
 of the wind, that without moving the leave 
 seemed ever to sigh between the tree trunl 
 blent into a soft sensation, half sound, half stij 
 something perceived nowhere but in the woe 
 seeming indeed as if there we were very close I 
 Nature's sweet and beautiful breast, hearing! 
 this mysterious pulsation the beating of U 
 kindly heart. 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 S5 
 
 [Andrew had grown to be in very close touch 
 Ith Nature during many solitary weeks spent 
 [hunting ; in long tramps through the Muskoka 
 )d8, shooting the fawn-coloured deers, and the 
 Id fowl that nested in the tiny lakes ; and in 
 ly a long night when he lay perdu watching 
 lynx, forgetting his quest in the marvel of 
 stars, or in wakeful watches, seeing the 
 linous camp-fire die down to embers and hear- 
 the shrill laughing of the loon, the weird 
 kil of the lynx, the cry of the great owl or the 
 |1 of the coon Andrew was past-master of all 
 )dland lore. He had hunted Muskoka through 
 through, ^^any a wild duck's breast and 
 i'h mask, and many a pair of antlens proved 
 prowess. 
 
 Jesides, he had spent many a winter in 
 thern Quebec, snow-shoeing over its silent 
 lite wastes upon the traces of moose; the 
 3nse cold parching his throat, his half-breed 
 Ide padding* along at his side; sometimes 
 jing royally upon juicy steaks and birds, 
 )iled as only hunters can broil — not scorched, 
 savoured with fire ; sometimes upon a long 
 il with a bit of frozen bacon in one pocket 
 
 £■ 
 
 
 ».. 
 
 I" Padding " is a term applied by hunters to the silent 
 footed gait of Indian guides. 
 
m 
 
 1 !i 
 
 11 
 
 ""'-"llj 
 
 I 
 
 lli;:i''!( 
 
 'If 
 
 \u 
 
 ■ '■• lliliilili 
 iiiii!i;ln 
 
 I 
 
 
 
 illill! 
 
 ! i 
 
 56 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 and a lump of frozen bread in the other, gna 
 ing a morsel off each with care, so that he migl 
 not break off his moustache which was frozi 
 in a solid mass with the moisture of his breati 
 
 Andrew often heard people say that oi 
 did not feel the intense cold in these nori 
 em regions; he always longed to have thej 
 there and let them try it. He had felt preti 
 cold up there, only he never remembered t 
 time when he couldn't hold his gun wii 
 naked hands. That, though, as every oi 
 knows, is the mark of a mighty Nimrod. 
 soon as his half-breed guide discovered this, 
 grunted out a guttural prophecy that the sh 
 would be good. 
 
 Strange mixtures these guides were; tl 
 combination of French suavity and redsk 
 cunning being a continual wonder to A.ndrp 
 accustomed as he was to less complex types. 
 
 This man who slept sometimes rolled close 
 the same blankets with him for v^^armth, wh 
 woodcraft made his less intuitive knowledi 
 ^eem absolute ignorance, whose judgment 
 matters of the chase was almost flawl 
 whose strength and agility would not ha' 
 shamed a Greek — this man cooked his ine 
 washed the dishes, waited upon him deferentiallj 
 and was not to be persuaded to eat at the sai 
 
 time. In the chase, a hero ; in the 
 
 camp, 
 
 a 
 
 slav: 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 67 
 
 [What tramps those were through the silent 
 litudes of these untrodden woods ! What 
 )inents had been his, when, leaving his guide 
 sparing the camp for the night, Andrew had 
 ^ned some high ridge, and pausing, looked far 
 )ss the peaks of graduated hills, clad in 
 nbre cedars weighted down with snow, white, 
 mt, yet instinct with that mystery which 
 3ses upon us pleading for elucidation, and 
 rer so strongly as when we are alone with 
 unblotted world before us, away from the 
 IS of man's desecration. There is something 
 pitiful in that mute appeal of nature to be 
 lerstood — like some sweet woman, smitten 
 a spell of suffering silence, till such time as 
 magic word shall release her. A word she 
 )ws, yet cannot, of her own power, speak, 
 lat magical mysteries shall not be re^^ealed 
 m speech is restored to her I And how her 
 plead and accuse at once! Of a verity, 
 ring ears we hear not ; truly, having eyes to 
 yet are we blind ! 
 
 i^or there is some great open secret surely in 
 universe, that being deciphered will set all 
 jangling dreams in chime. It is about us, 
 md us, above us ; the tiniest leaf tells it, the 
 of heaven proclaim it, the water manifests 
 id the earth declares it, and yet we do not 
 
 I 
 
 If 
 
 t ft- 
 
 \: 
 
 
 hi 
 
 -«: 
 
58 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 see it. When we do, it will be some simple viti 
 principle that we have breathed with the breail 
 of our lips, and handled with the familiar fingej 
 of the flesh. We will be so unable to conceij 
 of the world moving on in ignorance of it, tlu 
 all the wisdom of the ages past will seem butj 
 the howling of wolves in waste places, or at be 
 as the babbling of children that play with dj 
 sand, now letting it slip through their fingej 
 leaving them with empty hands, now getting f 
 in their eyes to torture them, or treading oii| 
 with vague discomfort and unease. 
 
 We have all seen these childish puzzles wij 
 hidden faces concealed in the traceries. Hi 
 hard it is to find these faces, although we knd 
 they are there ! And yet, when found, it 
 impossible to see anything else in the pictiij 
 They obtrude themselves upon us, and what y\ 
 formerly the picture becomes now only 
 background for what at first it completely cd 
 cealed. So everything will but subserve 
 show us how palpable the great Central Tn 
 has always been if we could but find it, and so\ 
 one will. So let us go on bravely, each resoj 
 ing '* To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yielj 
 There is indeed within us some spark of 
 Divine Fire. Let it but once flame fairly 
 and we shall be gods indeed, moving in 
 glory of our own transfiguration. 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 59 
 
 'here is no destiny too great for man. 
 
 'he northern stars are very clear and cold, 
 northern skies are very blue and chill, the 
 Iwy plains are places meant for thought, and 
 the silence of those scenes the soul awakes. 
 Lndrew bore away with him some reflex of 
 pr austerity and intensity, which tempered his 
 id as the steel is strengthened. 
 [is mother's story had been a sad one. She 
 Miss Myers' elder sister — Isabella Myers; 
 like Miss Myers yet very unlike; with 
 those resemblances which pronounce two near 
 [in, yet all those variations of the type which 
 ititute the difference between beauty and 
 ry-day flesh and blood. 
 
 ibella had been engaged to a minister's son 
 ie<l Harkness. He was a young man who 
 itied in every respect the many pleasing pro- 
 about ministers' sons ; yet, in spite of all, 
 a leal heart, a handsome form and face, a 
 \er touch, and a personal magnetism tluit 
 )led him to wring an unwilling consent out 
 [tern old Abraham Myers to his betrothal 
 his daughter Isabella. 
 
 lese two young folk worshipped each other, 
 
 [the v^edding day was set. Isabella was to 
 
 a white taffeta frock and white thread 
 
 But troublous times had come to Canada. 
 
 
 ill 
 
II 
 
 
 I H 
 
 iHil 
 
 60 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 Young Harkness went to the war. Isabella an 
 lie had a sad, sad parting, for the imaginatiil 
 girl was fey of her fate, and clung to him till 1 
 heart melted within him. And as he rode awal 
 with a long tress of her dark hair on his brea 
 it was not the sunshine alone that made 
 eyes so bright and his vision so uncertain. 
 
 It was but a puny affray that in the histoj 
 of the world's wars, but it does not take 
 battles to make men brave and women's heaij 
 ache. The dark braid had hardly warmed 
 its place before it was soaked with the blood | 
 the heart on which it lay. The real Isabel 
 Myers died then, too. But a pale apathej 
 woman in her shape and semblance still wd 
 wearily on her way. 
 
 Ten years later they married her to Andr 
 Cutler, a man considerably older than hers 
 and as her father said, "of the old true bl| 
 stock." She gave him a boy and died, well 
 of the world. Miss Hannah Myers came to kd 
 house for her brother-in-law. She brought | 
 the baby and took charge of the little hidec 
 ered chest which was full of the books (" poeil 
 books and such," Miss Myers called them) ti 
 young Harkness had given Isabella long befJ 
 Andrew Cutler lived on after his wife's deatlil 
 a good old age, being killed at last by falli 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 61 
 
 rough the trap-door in his hay-loft. Then 
 
 idrew was head of his house. 
 |As Andrew grew up, he developed such a 
 mge resemblance to one long dead, that 
 letimes, when a movement, gesture, or ex- 
 
 jssion of his brought it more clearly to Miss 
 
 rers* eyes, she felt an eerie thrill creep over 
 She described the sensation as' "cold 
 
 ills." For it was not a resemblance to his 
 ler, or his grandfather, or even to his mother 
 
 though he resembled her, too), but he imaged 
 bh the brave, handsome, devil-may-care lover 
 his mother's girlhood, he who had died ten 
 
 irs before Andrew's birth. Surely the image 
 
 [that long-lost lover had been deeply graven 
 
 (that broken heart. 
 
 The Cutler house on the hill," as the vil- 
 }rs described it, was quite a pretentious one 
 
 Jts way. Old Captain Cutler, he of the sword 
 sash, had not been penniless, by any means, 
 
 |en he left the United States, although he 
 
 behind him much valuable property. So 
 
 in the Canadian Government made him a 
 
 jlerous grant, he promptly spent his money in 
 
 Iding a house. Now, the forebears of this 
 
 ^tain Cutler had come from England, and 
 
 ly a tale his grandfather had told him of the 
 
 farm homestead there, of the garden with 
 
62 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 !i 
 
 brick-paven walks, and brick-built walls Ufnj 
 which grew the espaliered fruit, of the old su 
 dial beside the larch tree, and the oaken beai^ 
 that traversed the plaster of the ceilings, of tlj 
 flagged kitchen, and the big fire-places, 
 here on the hill-top overlooking the vall^ 
 where later Ovid was to be built. Captain Cutll 
 erected his house, fx big stone one with oak! 
 floors, stairways and doors, with heavy raft(| 
 of the same sturdy growth, a wide-flagg 
 kitchen, and a hall sheathed in wood half v;\ 
 to the roof, with huge open fire-places. He 
 a brick wall about his gardens, and over| 
 trained the sprawling branches of cum 
 bushes — red ones, and white and black. Latl 
 on, hop vines had been planted here and th^ 
 along the wall ; still later, a row of grape vi» 
 had superseded them, and clad the old brie] 
 with fresh festoons of leaves. This made, vvli 
 the grapes were ripe, a beautiful Bacchaii 
 arabesque of purple fruit and brov/n st«| 
 twisted tendril and green leaf. 
 
 He laid down narrow brick walks, too, audi 
 them planted horse-chestnut trees. He put] 
 sun-dial up, a grey stone column with a rou 
 top, whereon was rudely carven the symbols i 
 the hours and a lob-sided hour-glass; for la 
 of a larch tree he filched a linden from 
 hill-side. 
 
 I 
 
 I! ill 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 63 
 
 The garden took in the level plateau on top 
 the hill, and some of the slope upon the side 
 
 krthest from Ovid. The hill-side next the vil- 
 re was laden with lindens, which in spring 
 
 [ere covered in blossom. Old Captain Cutler 
 
 ^nt to England for English ox-heart cherry 
 ;es, and for boxwood, and for hawthorns to 
 mt hedges. 
 The cherry trees flourished and perpetuated 
 
 lemselves in generations of younger trees, the 
 )x grew and multiplied, but the hawthorn 
 
 jdges were failures. All that remained of 
 
 lem was a few scattered hawthorns that had 
 \g outgrown the status of the hedge row, and 
 
 jcome old gnarled trees. 
 
 Miss Myers was very proud of her flower 
 irden, which was a mass of circular, oval and 
 imond-shaped flower beds, bordered by box, 
 iced off by narrow bricked walks. There 
 
 [ere honeysuckles growing over old-fashioned 
 
 [ooden trellises ; and roses, crown imperials and 
 ion lilies; huge clumps of paeonies, pink, 
 
 ihite and the common crimson ; clove pinky 
 iid thyme; lilies of the valley and violets, 
 Ith bushes of rosemary and patches of balm ; 
 )tted tiger lilies, and a fragrant white lily 
 lied the day lily ; little shrubs of the pink 
 nvering almond, " snow on the mountain," 
 
 
M 
 
 64 
 
 JUDlttt MOORE. 
 
 II 
 
 "mist on the hill" and acacia shrubs. Ad 
 beside these, many more old-fashioned perennij| 
 plants, like queen of the meadow and thrift ; an 
 eveiy summer Andrew brought her heliotro{ 
 and scented geraniums, and mignonette froij 
 town. 
 
 The barns were away down at the foot of tlj 
 hill. Andrew's men usually all lived in tJ 
 village, unless he happened to have hired straij 
 gers for the stress of harvest or haying, ori 
 winter time when they were needed about tl| 
 house. 
 
 Miss Myers, as the village phrased it, " kej 
 help regular," and often had up old Mrs. Gre 
 from the village, for there was a deal of workj 
 be done in that house. 
 
 For the rest, Andrew was a practical farmej 
 it had not occurred to him that he did not ne 
 to work so hard, and the active life did him 
 harm. He was up at daylight in summer, aij 
 by candle-light in winter. 
 
 He ploughed, sowed, reaped and threshed 
 grain. And when at the threshings he sat at tlj 
 head of the long table, lined on each side witj 
 men " feeding like horses, when you hear the| 
 feed," he looked like some young chief amoii 
 his serfs, albeit he wore blue jeans and flannj 
 shirts as they did. 
 
 .il: :::1 
 
 iiiii; iin iiiiiiiii!!!! 
 
 I! 
 
JUDITH MOOUt:. 
 
 65 
 
 He did not know himself to be so different 
 )m his neighbours as he was, only he never 
 jmed to contemplate marrying one of their 
 
 [omen, and he pitied them. For they did not 
 jognize the pathos of their own narrow lives, 
 ley did not see their sun'oundings as he did — 
 
 |ie beauties of the skies above, and of the earth 
 
 Sneath, and the marvel and mystery of the 
 
 later. 
 Andrew could not have said this was what 
 ide him pity them, for he was one of the 
 irticulate ones, whose speech is shackled ; one 
 those, too, who know their own limitations in 
 
 [is way, and feel their fetters. At times they 
 jmed to weigh his spirit down. 
 
 / 
 
 
; 
 
 J i 
 
 I t 
 
 t I li!i 
 
 
 llinl!!lii!i 
 ill! 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Andrew was cu*^er to see Miss Moore a^aiuJ 
 although he felt a masculine irritation agaiiJ 
 her for taking umbrage at well-meant ad 
 thoroughly sensible advice. Perhaps at ta 
 bottom of this there lay a sotip^on of annoj 
 ance with himself, that he had spoken 
 abruptly to her upon the subject, mingled wii 
 a compassionate remembrance of what 1 
 Morris had told him of her delicacy. He \s\ 
 very glad to find an excuse to go up to iJ 
 woods, where they stretched past the Mon] 
 house ; and a pretence that he was looking f| 
 suitable trees to cut down for foundations 
 his hay-stacks, justified him in his own eyes fj 
 strolling among his trees in very leisurely, Ij 
 apparently disinterested fashion. He must, hoj 
 ever, have been paying some attention to 
 house on his right, for when Mrs. Morris ran 
 from the old orchard behind the house to ti 
 barns, calling, " Father, Father, where are yotj 
 Come here, quick, do, hey Father ! " Andw 
 promptly responded, leaping o^^er the fen 
 and speedily reaching her side. 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 67 
 
 " What's wrong ? " he anked. 
 
 " Land of love ! But I'm gla ' you've come, if 
 
 le did call you long-legged ; all the better for 
 
 [er now if you be. I hope she ain't fell by this 
 
 lino. Wonder where Father is. I never seen 
 
 ich a man ; always gone when he's wanted. I 
 
 jclare it beats me where he gets to. It's enough 
 
 drive — " 
 
 What is it, Mrs. Morris T' demanded Andrew, 
 Is heart misgiving him. " Can't I help ? " 
 
 " 'Deed you can ! And to think of her calling 
 )u long-legged, and the very next day having 
 
 depend on you for her life, may be, or to save 
 le of her own legs being broke — " 
 
 Mrs. Morris got no further. A little faint cry 
 ^ruck Andrew's ears, coming from the direction 
 
 the orchard. 
 
 "For heaven's sake, come on, and show me 
 [hat's wrong," he cried. "Don't stand there 
 llavering." 
 
 " Why, sakes alive ! Don't you know ? Miss 
 [oore got up in a tree and — " 
 
 But by this time they were in the orchard. A 
 
 mcc explained the situation to Andrew. 
 
 High up on an apple-tree branch stood Miss 
 [core, clinjiinff with both arms round a limb 
 
 )ve her, her face white as death, her eyes 
 
 lated with fear. A ladder's head was within 
 
 
 
68 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 'iiiiiii.'iiiy 
 
 III! ' 
 
 Pll ll'tii 
 Dill I! 
 
 .i 
 
 six inches of her feet. Andrew was up it in 
 instant. He knew the trouble. Only last yeaj 
 a hired man of his had ascended a tree to picll 
 fruit. He was seized with this ague of dizzj 
 fear, and flinging himself against a stout liiiil| 
 had held on like grim death. It took two mej 
 to get him down ; his terror made him clasp tb 
 tree convulsively. It was days before he \v^ 
 well again. 
 
 Miss Moore had evidently not seen him, nd 
 heard his coming. As he slipped his arms aboii| 
 her, she gave a great start, and turned to look i 
 him with eyes which seemed to expect son 
 tangible shape of horror, evolved out of U 
 illogical and intangible fear. 
 
 When she saw who it was, her eyes filled an 
 her lips trembled. 
 
 " Oh, take me down. Do take me down." 
 
 " Yes, indeed, I will," said Andrew, with quit] 
 assurance. " Let go of the branch." 
 
 She shuddered. The spell of the vertigo d 
 yet upon her. Her arms tightened upon tlj 
 bough. 
 
 ** Do take me down," she pleaded childishlj 
 « I'm frightened." 
 
 "My dear, you must loose your hold," 
 Andrew, steadily. 
 
 Then, with one arm about her, he reached 
 
 I !l 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 69 
 
 id one by one undid the clinging fingers, gather- 
 
 tlieni into his palm as he did so. With a force 
 
 lat seemed cruel, he pulled down the slender 
 
 [rist and placed her hand upon his shoulder. 
 
 ler face expressed the agony of <lizziness. With 
 
 find instinct she put her other arm about his 
 
 jk and clasped it close. He felt her form 
 
 lax, and braced himself in time to sustain her 
 
 id weight as she fainted. 
 
 The descent of the ladder was easy enough. 
 
 idrew had carried many a bag of wheat up 
 
 id down his steep granary staii*s. The prin- 
 
 )le of balancing an inert woman is much the 
 
 lie. He carried her into the house and laid 
 
 down upon the broad home- made couch, 
 
 [vered with dark brown calico, that stood in 
 
 |e kitchen. Mrs. Morris had talked volubly 
 
 ing these proceedings, but only after he laid 
 
 ^dith down, did Andrew begin to hear what 
 
 was saying. 
 [" She does look gashly ! " said Mrs. Morris, 
 '^hatever would I do if she was to be took ! 
 id this minute she looks lit for laying out." 
 I" Goodness alive," said Andrew. " Can't you 
 anything to bring her to ? Bathe her face, or 
 lething ? " 
 
 Irs. Morris flew for water and brought it, 
 ^mbling. " I say, Andrew, can't you do it ? 
 
 ! i 
 
70 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 • i»ii 11 llili'iii.niMHl 
 
 ;l s:-! 
 
 '¥ ' : 1 ^'liiiiiil 
 
 I mi 
 
 I'm so shook — I never could bear to touclil 
 corpses, and — " 
 
 Andrew gave her a venomous look, dipped hisl 
 handkerchief in the water, and be^an clumsily 
 to bathe the girl's brow. Her senses were alreadji 
 reasserting themselves. She put up her handsl 
 to her face ; they fluttered nervously. Andrew 
 caught one of them and held it be'. »veen his ovt| 
 brown ones, noting that her wrists were red 
 almost bruised, creased in rough outline of tbj 
 apple-tree's bark. 
 
 " Will you give me some water ? " she askedl 
 
 Mrs. Morris brought a blue and white cu|)[ 
 Andrew, kneeling on the braided mat before tliJ 
 couch, slipped his arm under Judith and put tlit| 
 cup to her lips. She took a moutliful, and fel| 
 into a shivering fit of cold. 
 
 Mrs. Morris rose to this emergency''. Af^wi 
 was an old familiar friend ; " shakes " had m! 
 terrors for her. In a moment she had found i 
 thick coverlet and placed it over Judith. 
 
 *' You stay by her," she said to Andiewj 
 " and I'll make her a draught of hot elderbeir]] 
 syrup in two shakes." 
 
 Then she was off to the lean-to kitchen, aii^ 
 they heard her rattling among her kettlesi 
 Andrew still knelt upon the mat holding Judith | 
 hand with praiseworthy absent-mindedness. 
 
 iih :::lii 
 
J 
 
 ,1 ! 
 
 JUDITH MOOllE. 
 
 71 
 
 to toudj 
 
 lipped his] 
 cluinsihl 
 re alreadvi 
 ner handsl 
 Andre^tj 
 n bis oAMij 
 were retij 
 line oftlw 
 
 3he askcdl 
 irhite cup] 
 before thi 
 ad put tilt) 
 il, and fell 
 
 cy. AM 
 bad nil 
 bd found i 
 tb. 
 
 Andrew! 
 elderberrj 
 
 itcben, an^ 
 er kettles^ 
 ig Judith 1 
 ;dness. 
 
 " Are you better now ? " he asked. 
 
 "Yes," she said, her chin quivering as she 
 ried to keep her teeth from cliattering. " It 
 f&s so good of you to take ire down. So awfully 
 
 )d. I'm very stupid, but I couldn't help U,.'* ^ 
 
 *' Of course you couldn't. I had a man who 
 jhaved much worse than you di<l in the same 
 [tuation. Ever so much. Indeed, you beha\ ed 
 jry well." 
 
 There was silence ; then Judith began : " Mr. 
 
 itler, I — er — called you a name to Mrs. Morris 
 le other day." 
 
 " Did you ? What did you call me ?" 
 
 " Will you forgive me ? " 
 I" Tell me what you called me first." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 I" Forgiveness is worth that, isn't it ? " 
 [*'0h, yes. I called you — long-legged, and— 
 
 khink, I said you were rude." 
 
 [Andrew suppressed an inclination to laugh, 
 
 ting minded not to belittle the value of his 
 
 solution. 
 Well," he said, '' I'll forgive the first part of 
 [because you see it's so awfully true, and as for 
 second, well — I think you meant ' sensible ' ; 
 l^'how, I forgive you for it all." 
 
 yiiss Moore experienced a mental sensaticni 
 |e would hav'5 cuIIcmI " curling up.'" A pretty 
 
 
 ■a&: 
 
72 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 "iiiiii) 
 
 cool specimen, this young farmer ! She ha 
 thought he would have fallen into falterin 
 excuses. She was really ill, though faint — colii| 
 
 Mrs. Morris came in with the steaming cup < 
 black syrup. Judith had forgotten till thai 
 moment that Andrew held her hand ; of cour 
 Andrew had been unconscious of it all aloi 
 But as Mrs. Morris appeared in the door a swifl 
 intuition of the state of affairs came to Judii 
 She gave a little gesture of withdrawal, anj 
 Andrew released her fingers slowly, rising witi 
 praiseworthy calmness to get himself a chair. 
 
 While Judith tried to drink the hot syrujj 
 Mrs. Morris explained that Miss Moore had nevJ 
 seen a bird's nest with eggs in it, and there beii^ 
 an oriole's nest in the apple-tree, " Father " ha 
 put up the ladder for her to see it, and — Andrej 
 knew the rest. 
 
 " Tree fright is a lot worse than stage fright] 
 said Miss Moore"; oracularly, but this was a d 
 saying to both her listeners. Mrs. Morris talkt| 
 and talked. Miss Moore had long sin» i 
 back on the big brown pillow; her face 
 flushed, her eyes sleepy. Andrew would l. 
 listened to Mrs. Morris forever, provided he coi 
 have watched Miss Moore at the same in 
 But at length Mrs. Morris rose and mov^ 
 towards her summer kitchen, intimating th 
 
 ^i 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 73 
 
 3r chores needed tending to, so Andrew per- 
 ^rce had to take his leave. 
 " Good-bye, just now," he said. " May I come 
 ;k and take you to see some birds' nests nearer 
 [e ground ? " 
 
 Oh, do," she said. " And I haven't thanked 
 \n half enough for helping me to-day." 
 r Indeed yru have. Good-bye, just now." 
 [" Good-bye," she said softly, 
 [e was just at the door, when a soft but 
 irrogative " Ahem " from the couch attracted 
 attention. He turned. Miss Judith Moore 
 not look at him, but with cautious precision 
 drew the dark blue coverlet up a tiny bit. 
 eyes became riveted upon the point of a 
 ize slipper that gradually grew from the 
 low of the covering until a whole foot was 
 jaled — a foot at a defiant pose and wearing 
 ^ttle bronze slipper with an exaggeratedly 
 heel. Andrew's eyes grew daring, and he 
 turLod. 
 liss Moore seemed to telescope, for head and 
 disappeared beneath the coverlet at once, 
 [paused a moment, and then departed. 
 he went across the fields he thought of the 
 scene he had left, and, more shame to him, 
 ^lioughts were not concerned wholly with the 
 effects of wearing high heels, nor yet of the 
 
74 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 ill,,,.,,,. 
 
 ■-:r:ili'i!;!lil 
 ij 
 
 I 
 h'iI 
 
 f'i'iii'i 
 
 impropriety of Miss Moore's retaliation for 
 high and mighty granting of forgiveness, 
 deed, as he sat for a moment kicking his he 
 on the top bar of the first fence, he was spe 
 lating solely as to whether " they " were op 
 work or not ! He was thinking he would hi| 
 given his best gun to be able to tell, and sumi) 
 up his reflections with a dissatisfied little groJ 
 " Of all the mean, miserable, stingy glimpses 1 
 
 As he walked along, his face changed. A| 
 climbing the hill-side to his garden wall, 
 passed an apple-tree in full bloom at the 
 He paused beneath it. His face was pales 
 serious, his eyes tender. He thought of Judiij 
 russet head as it had leaned upon his shouW 
 he looked down at his old velvet coat, wliei^ 
 had rested, and fancied some vague perfume i 
 from it to his face. He remembered he had i 
 her in his arms, and recalled the red marks iii 
 her delicate wrists. Those wrists had been cun 
 about his neck. 
 
 He could not realize the full height and 
 of what had come to him, but his whole 
 groped for the truth even as he stood bene 
 the tree. 
 
 As he walked slowly up the narrow bricl 
 walk to the house, he noticed how the chesj 
 roots and the frost together had heaved up 
 
 r;f:":llllil 
 
JUDITH i»*^^RE. 
 
 75 
 
 ►ricks and rendered the walk irregular. He 
 rendered anxiously if she could walk over it in 
 jose shoes, and as he reached his door, which 
 )d open under its old-fashioned porch, reveal- 
 \^ a dusky cool vista beyond, he suddenly saw, 
 in a vision woman's shape stand between 
 \e lintels, waii ..^ for him ! — a woman with 
 mder hands outstretched in welcome, grave 
 iy eyes, soft hair, tender lips ; the woman he 
 ^ved ; his own. As this last thought, the sweet- 
 tliought man's heart holds, formulated itself 
 liis mind, Andrew knew the truth. He turned 
 iwn the path, past the apple-tree, through the 
 idens again, and across his fields, until once 
 )re he looked upon the hoijse wherein she 
 sted. He looked at it long from the shelter 
 his trees, his whole existence resolved into 
 [chaas of uncertain self-communings, until a 
 }ice like an angel's seemed to whisper of 
 
 ifort and to sing of hope. 
 [Then he went home, and at four o'clock betook 
 iself to the school-house to attend the meet- 
 in regard to appointing a new teacher. 
 'he village school-house stood at the end of 
 street farthest away from the Cutler home- 
 jad. It was a bleak, stone building, with a 
 den porch — a gaunt, bare, uninviting-looking 
 [ilding, with none of those picturesque adjuncts 
 
76 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 of climbing vines and overarching trees, ass 
 ated so often with thoughts of a country scha 
 
 It had a perky, self-satisfied little bell-hon 
 on top, and its date, 1865, was rudely carved « 
 a big stone in the peak of the north gable, 
 had eight windows — three at each side, twoj 
 one end. In winter, the wood for the box st 
 was always piled up outside before these. Thfj 
 were always complaints of the school-hoi 
 being dark in winter, yet it never occurred | 
 any one to select a different site for the wo 
 pile. 
 
 The interior of the school-house correspon(| 
 in dinginess to the outside. The plaster av^ 
 were sadly soiled, particularly beneath the b 
 window seats, where the children sat kicli 
 their heels whilst they ate their lunches at no 
 for the scholars were drawn principally U 
 the outlying farm-houses. A long length] 
 irregularly jointed pipes led the smoke from I 
 box stove at the end to an exit over the teaclij 
 desk. Little tin pails were hung at intervj 
 along this, to catch the black liquid disti 
 from the soot. The other adornments ofi 
 room consisted of a long blackboard, a gl(i| 
 and some big lettered tablets, round which i 
 teacher was wont to gather the infant class i 
 teach them their letters. 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 77 
 
 [in the politics of a little village like Ovid, the 
 illest public measures became magnified to 
 )tesque importance. The usual custom was 
 the school trustees to sit in private session 
 jt, when any particular business was to be 
 mged, say, the selection of a teacher, an<i 
 |ien this was arranged the doors were flung 
 le and the meeting was " open." These open 
 ^ool meetings were always well attended. 
 5y were the classes in which embryotic states- 
 |n acquired the political alphabet, the ABC 
 [political procedure, the manner of putting a 
 bion, taking a vote, making a nomination, 
 the correct order of precedence governing 
 motions and amendments. There too, was 
 lired the first great requisite of a politician, 
 le art of saying non-committal things in a 
 Jt convincing tone of voice, and of treating 
 much politeness those whom one held in 
 )t abhorrence. 
 
 here were two oflfices, those of school trustee 
 
 pathmaster, and these two were equal in 
 
 rer and glory. True, they were barren 
 
 )urs, but they ofttimes led to better 
 
 igs. The school trustee had the higher 
 
 itioii in one respect ; he was chosen by the 
 
 )le at first hand. The pathmaster, upon the 
 
 rary, was appointed by the Council. It is 
 
 ; } 
 
I i ! 
 
 78 
 
 JUDITH MOOHE. 
 
 m 
 i iiii 
 
 Hiii|llliiiii 
 
 needless to say the school trustee smiled in culij 
 superiority at the pathmaster, and the latter 
 turn felt the making of the roads wherein i\ 
 whole community walked, was as holy an offij 
 as the task of guidinpf the juvenile wandereij 
 into the school, and seeing that when there, thej 
 trod the common road to knowledge, it beiii 
 well known that there is no royal road theietj 
 
 When Andrew arrived at the school-houa 
 the other two trustees, Hiram Green who keJ 
 the village store, and Hen Braddon, wei| 
 present. They immediately entered upon a di 
 cussion of the teacher question. The applicaticj 
 of Sam Symmons' Suse lay upon the tab! 
 written out upon foolscap paper, in big rouij 
 hand, with many flourishing capitals, rejoiciij 
 in " shaded " heads and beautifully involvj 
 tails. 
 
 " I tell you Suse is a good fist with a piij 
 said Hen Braddon, with conviction, and t| 
 other two agreed. " She ain't no slouch 
 spelling either," said Hiram Green. The oth 
 two agreed with this also. Then Andrew to 
 up his pai*able. 
 
 " Yes," he said, " Suse is quite smart, and Imi 
 bred right here in Ovid seems to give herj 
 claim to the school. I suggest we just appoij 
 her." 
 
 Hi ill 
 
 i" i ! 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 79 
 
 [" Well, it's as well to be cautious," said Hiram 
 
 3en. 
 I" It'll save advertising," said Hen Braddon. 
 "Suppose we just decide on it then," said 
 idrew. 
 I" Well," said Hiram Green, " well, I ain't got 
 
 objections to Suse as Suse, but what I think 
 
 two hundred and fifty is enough to pay a 
 )man for what a man got three hundred." 
 [Andrew sneered. He didn't have a sweet 
 
 )ression when he did that, 
 p* Don't you think," he said, gravely — "don't 
 |u think Suse might include cleaning the 
 
 lool-house and lighting the fires in winter for 
 
 two-fifty, being she's a woman ? " 
 f' No," said Hiram, reflectively ; " old Mrs. 
 Ick has done it so long." 
 ^'But it would save twenty-five dollars," 
 
 fued Andrew, with meek persuasion. 
 Well," said Hiram, " Mrs. Slick needs that. 
 Je's owin' already, and she might's well draw 
 money off the school taxes as off the 
 
 moil." 
 
 Oh, Mrs. Slick is owing, is she i " queried 
 hew, with solicitude. " I hope she pays you 
 I' right. Well, about Suse. Being she's a 
 pman, don't you think you could fix it so's 
 
 j'd chop the wood for winter ? That would 
 
 re twelve dollars." 
 
 tn 
 
 .V. 
 
80 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 iii'iiiiiin 
 
 ' ' 111! 
 
 Ill H! I 
 
 iiKll!ll!'I!ini;! 
 
 A nasty red flickered up to Hiram's facel 
 He had thought Andrew's proposition about the] 
 taking care of tlie school thoroughly genuine. 
 
 " Oh," he said, " I ain't particular whether shtl 
 gets the three hundred or the two-fifty, thougtl 
 I hope you won't deny when nomination comesl 
 round that you deliberately threw away t 
 dollars of the people's money." 
 
 " You may be quite sure I won't deny anyl 
 thing that's true," said Andrew, hotly. " And! 
 as for throwing away the people's money, well- 
 some of the teachers, so far as I can recollect] 
 got their salaries raided pretty frequently. 01 
 course, I wasn't on the School Board then, sol 
 only heard why it was done. I can't say of rajj 
 own knowledge." 
 
 The fact was that Mr. Hiram Green ha<i| 
 several unappetizing daughters, and, as he ha 
 been school trustee almost ever since any onJ 
 remembered, it seemed good in his sight thai 
 the teachers, over whom he wielded such pa] 
 ternal authority in such a parental way, sliouli 
 return the compliment by adopting a filial rm 
 and become sons not only in spirit but in namel 
 But, alas, for the vanity of human wishes ! tlia 
 perfidious tea'^hers had accepted all Hirauii 
 kindness, had slept in the best bedroom aul 
 partaken of his best fruit, had ridden by him tij 
 
•JUDITH >fOORE. 
 
 81 
 
 )wii and accompanied the Misses Green to tea- 
 
 leetings and festivals, had abode in the Green 
 
 |o"sehold over Sundays, liad gone with them to 
 
 lurch, and at choir practice had faithfully served 
 
 lein, and then, with the extra money they had 
 
 jen able to save through Hiram's hospitality 
 
 id the fortuitous " raise " in their salaries, they 
 
 id shaken the dust of Ovid from oft' their feet, 
 
 id departed to frewh fields and pastures new, to 
 
 larry the girls they had been engaged to all 
 
 long or to study for one of the higher profes- 
 
 ms. Never a one of them all left a love gauge 
 
 [ith a Miss Green, and in the bosom of the 
 
 (reen family many were the revilings cast upon 
 
 |iose teachera, who, with a goodly countenance 
 
 id a better appetite, ha<^ devoured Mrs. Green's 
 
 ^er cak< s and preserves, feasted upon Hiram's 
 
 iches and driven his hoi*8es upon the false 
 
 )tences of " intentions." However, in fairness 
 
 tlie teachers, one must remember that "some 
 
 ^ve greatness thrust upon them. " t'oolish, 
 
 lead, would be the man who deliberately 
 
 jfended his trustees, and Hiram's hospitality 
 
 iH usually somewhat pressingly proffered. 
 
 [This last teacher — bad luck to Mm ! — had 
 
 scribed hnnself in his application as a single 
 
 ui, when at the beginning of the summer 
 
 lation he sent in his certificates for consid- 
 
82 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 ipiii 
 
 if iii 
 
 III)! 
 Illlllll 
 
 eration in response to Hiram's advertisement 
 and before these holidays had passed lip 
 married and came alone to Ovid to take upl 
 school in the antumn, and had eaten five 
 teas and two dinners at Hiram Green's before 
 he asked the eldest daughter, with whom he 
 frequently found himself alone, where she! 
 thought he could rent a suitable house for him 
 self and wife. 
 
 "This is very sudden," murmured MissGieeal 
 
 *' Well, I don't know," he said, in a practicall 
 tone of voice, "I've been nearly two weeks awayl 
 from her now, and I can't stand it much lonf^er." 
 
 Miss Green gathered his meaning then, and! 
 never another tea did that teacher sit down t«| 
 in Hiram Green's, and indeed the atmosphere oti 
 Ovid had been made so frigid for the littlj 
 smooth-haired, blue-eyed girl he had marrie 
 that he soon sent her away, and finding he couWl 
 not do without her, finally sent in his own resigj 
 nation. The Greens had a big family coniiec 
 tion, and Ovid was made a cold place for 
 whom they did not like. The Cutler house 
 the hill and poor old Sam's stubborn tloorl 
 were about the only portals in Ovid that 
 enemy of the Greens might pass. 
 
 Henry Braddon acted as a soft, efi:ective buft'eij 
 between Hiram and Andrew, who both alwayj] 
 wanted their own way, and wanted it at once. 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 83 
 
 Best let Suae have the three hundred," said 
 ^e ; " old Reilly will be foreclosing on Sam soon 
 
 he don't raise the money somehow." Now, 
 
 .'illy was the local usurer, the one hard-hearted, 
 lose-tisted old Shylock so often found in rural 
 liHtricts ; the one man within a radius of twenty 
 lil ; who had made a fortune. He was re- 
 itedly worth seventy or eighty thousand dol- 
 irs ; possibly he was worth fifty thousand. But 
 rlien that is divided into mortgages, ranging 
 
 )in two or three hundred dollars up to, per- 
 ips, one or two of five thousand, one can realize 
 rhat a power he was in the country side ; how 
 lany heart-strings he had tangled in his grasp- 
 \g fingers ; from how many couches his 
 ladowy outstretched hand banished sleep ; at 
 )w many tables his hollow, gaping palm was 
 jen, as the children put out their hands for 
 
 )d ; before how many hearths his spectral 
 pesence ever sat with a look of anticipatory 
 roprietorship. He was as cruel as the grave, 
 id as relentless as time. Not one ten minutes 
 
 grace did ever any one get from old Reilly. 
 
 le children looked at him with awe as he 
 rove past in his old-fashioned buggy, a hatchet- 
 
 led old man, thin, cold-blooded, with big 
 |iuckly hands holding the reins. Hen Braddon 
 lew what he was doinir when he referred to 
 
 ii' 
 
 ^ 'I' 
 
B4 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 him. The week before, Hiram Green's brotlier| 
 had been turned neck and crop out of his farm 
 by this same Reilly. No fear that Hiram woul(J 
 let him get another "haul" off old Sam if he I 
 could help it. 
 
 " That's so," said Hiram, with alacrity. " An- 
 drew, you just make out the appointment, will 
 you ? and you post it. Hen, when you go home. 
 
 Andrew having gained his point, was gener- 
 ously sorry that he had twitted Hiram about | 
 the salary matter, so in the subsetjuent open 
 meeting he let Hiram do all the talking, looking; 
 the while at a dark stain on the ceiling, which a 
 coat of whitewash, put on yearl^'^ since he was a 
 boy, had failed to obliterate, He would never 
 forget how that ink went \ip, and that mi;^ht be 
 the very same old box stove over in the corner, 
 the one upon which he set that tightly corked 
 bottle of frozen ink to thaw, taking precaution 
 at the same time to be oat of the road when it 
 exploded. It had been a particularly brilliant] 
 "go off'" that — straight up to the ceiling and 
 down in a shower of black spatters. Andrew I 
 could see the fun of it yet, and found himself 
 involuntarily looking at his palms, as thougli 
 some traces of the blisters the teacher's rawhide 
 had raised might still be there. Andrew recalled 
 many other such like exploits, and looked at hid 
 
fUDITH MOORE. 
 
 85 
 
 [smooth, brown palms, thiiikiiiir how many thor- 
 lough thrashings he had liad, when suddenly a 
 [line of poetry he had read some days before, 
 Icame into his head : 
 
 "Lay thy sweet hands in mine, and trust to nie." 
 
 He sat through the meeting quite oblivious of 
 hat was g >ing on, missing what was one of the 
 nest oratorical flights of Hiram Green's career. 
 e was speaking of the departing teacher, and 
 e made many scathing remarks anent the 
 egends and pictures upon the walls, which, as 
 e brilliantly put it, " in<licated an entire and 
 dplorable lack of discipline upon the part of the 
 resent teacher." The said teacher smiled and 
 id nothing. Had Hiram looked closely at the 
 ictures he would have found that a good many 
 if the drawings were caricatures of himself and 
 lis family. In one rude picture the four Misses 
 reen were represented as having hold of a 
 an, wlio struggled in the midst. By means 
 cei'tain facial peculiarities, exaggerate<l as 
 Jily a genius or a school-boy would dare ex- 
 gerate, any one in Ovid could have i<lentiHed 
 e Misses Green and their victim, a former 
 acher. One of the ladies held a coat sleeve she 
 <1 rent oif another a oortion of a coat-tail ; and 
 er this group the artist had printed in fair 
 
 m 
 
 : \ 
 
86 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 mukf 
 
 1 m 
 
 llrlllM! 
 ii 
 
 1 :::"!' 
 
 h ' 
 
 ii 
 
 ' 
 
 
 round script, " For his garment they cast lots,'! 
 Under the circumstances the applicability of thi«j 
 would have been a credit to Du Maurier, and 
 it said in defence of the school-boy artist, it wa 
 probably written with no thought of beiiis 
 impious. Your school -boy caricaturist catck 
 the spirit of the times. 
 
 The participants in the school meeting wen 
 just departing from the school-house doors, wliej 
 to them came old Sam KSyramons. He hadjuij 
 been told by Suse of her application, and 
 almost stifling eagerness was filling his hean 
 If she got it, it meant so much; but he pr 
 sented his usual suave, smiling old face to Hei 
 Braddon and Hiram Green, and said nothin 
 As Andrew passed the old man looked at hiiij 
 That look of age to green manhood, how pitifij 
 it is ! Andrew paused a moment. " We're goii^ 
 to have an Ovid teacher this time," he saiJ 
 " You'll tell Suse, won't you, Mr. Symmons, tlii| 
 her appointment is in the mails ? " 
 
 Poor old Sam! It was harder for him 
 carry off good fortune with nonchalance thanj 
 was to remain impassive in the face of bad. 
 had had so much more practice in the latt^ 
 form of self-control. He drew his breath deepll 
 and his lips quivere 1 a little. Andrew saw th| 
 
 " Don't forget to tell her, Mr. Symmons, " 
 added, and went on his way. 
 

 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 87 
 
 •ew saw t 
 rmmons," 
 
 Forget ! 
 
 " Meeting over, Mr. Braddon ? Meeting over ?" 
 ISain queried, falling into the irregular ranks of 
 [the moving men. " Well, well I remember the 
 kiine your grandfather and I were school trus- 
 tees, and he was a shoemaker, and a better 
 nan with lasts tlian letters. In his young days 
 le used to go about from house to house making 
 the shoes. He had regular places for calling ; 
 two pairs a year was the allowance — well, that 
 justoin has long gone by. Anyhow, we were 
 jth trustees, and one day we went out to the 
 Jeechwood School, section No. 6 now. Well, 
 the minister was there, too, and 8(|uire Hark- 
 less — both long dead now — brotliers they were. 
 >ne of the children handed up her slate for 
 rour grandfather to look at, and he, holding it 
 front of him at arm's length, said, with con- 
 sideration seemingly to its merits, ' Fair, very 
 lir,' which wp*s right enough truly ; but when 
 rour gi'andfather held it over to the rest of us, 
 twas plain to be seen 1 . had had the slate 
 ipside down. Yes, he was ambitious, too, your 
 [•andfather w^as, and got on well in the world ; 
 ieeven bought him a big silver w^atch. Watches 
 reren't so plentiful in those days. You didn't 
 it a watch in the pocket of every suit of 
 lothes you bought then, as the papers would 
 
88 
 
 JUmiH MDOUE. 
 
 show you »lo now. And when We asked yomj 
 grandf'atUcv what time it w as, as we would tVel 
 quently do, being minded to jdease him, y 
 would take out his watch, look at it with conj 
 sideration, and hold it out to us saying, ' Whoa 
 ha' thought 'twas that time o' day,' in surprisj 
 seemingly, which was right smart, for he nevis 
 learned to read time, your grandfather didml 
 But a good business man he was, and a gmiJ 
 neighbour, as many a poor body knew." 
 
 Old Sam and his following straggled in twosl 
 and threes up the street, past Bill Aikins' houtj 
 where Bill stood in the doorway smoking, havj 
 ing just helped his wife Kate, nee Home, haiij 
 up the day's washing, school meetings being itl 
 his wife's opinion too provocative of idlenes 
 the idleness which the devil improves, to 
 indulged in by Bill. 
 
 Bill's house, albeit small, had a particularli] 
 aggressive look. It had a door in *^^he centrel 
 and a window with red-painted sash on eitliel 
 side. These windows always shone efFulgentli 
 clean. Whether this brilliancy of pane or tliJ 
 vermilion paint produced the effect, it is diffij 
 cult to say, but certain it is that Bill's hous 
 always looked as though it were about to spriiil 
 on the road, which was, figuratively, much tlil 
 same as the attitude of Bill's wife towards hio 
 
JUDITH iMOORE. 
 
 89 
 
 Bill Aikins had originally been a boy brought 
 )ut by one of the benevolent English societies, 
 liich gather up the scum of their own cities 
 Hid trust to the more sparkling atmosphere of 
 le New World to aerate it into "respectable 
 i\\(\ usiful citizens." Bill Aikins had taken 
 ^enca leave of the minister with whom the 
 loiiie had placed him. A plenitude of prayers 
 ^)i(l a paucity of what Bill had called "hot 
 rittlcH," decided him upon this step. He wan- 
 ned to Ovi<l, and for many years had been 
 [hired man " to the various farmers within ten 
 is of the village. He was a good worker, 
 it lacked ballast, and was rapidly degenerating 
 |ito a sot when Kate Home married him, and, 
 the boys expressc ) it, "brought him up 
 
 The men greeted Bill pleasantly, fidil Bill 
 jponded genially, trying to lo(ik as if fe 
 iH unconscious <jf Kate's critifiMna upon thB 
 m passing — -a somewhat difficult tfttnj( Uf 
 jomplish, as Kate s[:>oke so loudly from the 
 )iii behind that bf^r remarknj ^ere oe^'^'ectly 
 Idible to the subjects of them. 
 [One by one the crowd dwindled away, and 
 5n old Sam " putting his best foot foremost," 
 he would have said, hurried home and told 
 ise of her good fortune. She was very olatort/ 
 
 

 Hiaiiiiii;iii!i:!i;i 
 
 90 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 %.,^ irainiiiiw. 
 
 ' I i 
 
 lilli"" llllflll!' 
 
 '' ■lir" 
 
 HI 
 
 Hi! 
 
 ' '''''ililll 
 
 was Suse, and kept iiiurnmiing to herself, " 1' 
 just show them Greens what's what." 
 
 • •••••••a, 
 
 Long after the last light had twinkled outiii 
 the village, a shaft of light streamed across tlie 
 old garden of the house on the liill. For all the 
 calm of Andrew's heart was gone. The peace 
 of the first acceptance of the fact that he loved 
 this stranger .^irl had vanished. He got do^vD| 
 on his knees, reached under the bed and pulled 
 out an old, old-fashioned little chest, coveredl 
 with untanned cowhide, whose brown and wliitel 
 patches were studded with rows of big brassl 
 nails. It held the books over which his mothenl 
 pretty dark head had bent so often, close bjl 
 that other proud one, which soon lay huiiibljj 
 enough in its kindred dust. It was no unusua 
 thing for Andrew to spend half the night poriiij 
 over these books. There was a fat little copj] 
 of Shakespeare, with ruinously small print; 
 quaint little leather volume of Francis Quarles] 
 George Herbert's poetry ; Suckling's and a suit 
 scription copy of the Queen's Wake, " dedicate 
 to the Princess Charlotte by a shepherd in tlitj 
 Highlands of Scotland." These, with a m 
 others, had formed his mother's library. Getf 
 ting them out, he looked for certain passages 
 knew well — passages that iiad wrung his heaij 
 
JUDITH M<)(>RE. 
 
 01 
 
 l)eforc this with their description of iiiiattain- 
 nble sweetness and love — passages that had 
 almost made him despair, and yet, not wholly, for 
 lie had dreamed a dream of one day going forth 
 I to seek and find a Beatrice, a Juliet, a Desde- 
 linona, a Rosalind — all in one divine combina- 
 tion of womanhood, worthy to have been 
 addressed in the immortal sonnets. And, lo ! 
 [tlie spring had brought her — would the summer 
 rive her to him ? The kindlv summer that 
 rives the flower to the bee, the sun to the flower, 
 yie blue sky to the sun, and all the earth to joy. 
 jurely— .and but a mile away Judith slept, 
 Ireaining, but not of song. And over the 
 raters that quickened with insect life, through 
 he air all astir with the scents and savours of 
 )iing, athwart the earth that was quivering 
 rith the growth of all things green — summer 
 line one day nearer. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 " Sweet Spring, full of sweet days and rosea, 
 A box where sweets compacted lie, 
 My Musick shows ye have your closes, 
 And all must die." 
 
 Judith Moore, the operatic singer, was not| 
 an ailing woman UHually. In fact, slie had veryj 
 sweet and wtdl Italaneed health, but in her| 
 make-up the mental and pliyHicnl balanced 
 each otner so well, and were ho closely allit'U 
 that any joy or grief — in short, any emotion- 
 reacted stronjnrly upon her physical organiaiii 
 Heart and brain, sense anil H|)irit were |i|ii 
 knit. IVlientei) strung as an y1^]olian liur|i,| 
 she vibrated too strongly to ihe winds iJiiill 
 swept over her. As strings grow lax or snapl 
 from being over-taut, so her nerves ha<l I'ailHll 
 under the tension of excitement, and ettbrl, nm 
 triumph Two 3^ears before she had made herl 
 (lehiU upon the operatic stage in Gerinanyl 
 stepping from the strictest tutelage to an instantl 
 and un{{uestioned success. Even yet when sliel 
 thought of that night her cheeks would liiisli 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 93 
 
 her eyes dilate, her liead poise itself more 
 proudly. She recalled it so well. Her mana- 
 ,ger's eagerness, that made his dark face almost 
 livid ; her own fright ; the mascot thrust hastily 
 into her hand by an old attache of the play- 
 house^. She remembered all the details of this 
 performance better than any other — the orches- 
 tra and the people ; the peculiai*, loving droop of 
 the shoulder with which one of the 'cello 
 players bent above his sonorous instrument. 
 I Then came her effort, and it seemed the next 
 [moment the thunderous applause, the flowers, 
 the deep-throated Hoch ! Hoch ! and the joyous 
 juraing of her manager behind the scenes. 
 Yes, that was life. 
 
 And as she lived her triumphs over again, 
 |i« fnlt the supreme exaltation of a genius in a 
 \ymi 1(1 ft, the God-like thrill of mastery, the 
 lorlnljH uifllMJtity of capacity, tli4^ birth pang 
 if r'H'ation. There is no gift so marvellous, so 
 laddening, so divine as tint gift of song — none 
 L) evanescent, none so sad. 
 
 Tliis woman inhaled the connnon fther of a 
 
 ^roMaic world, mi/igled it with her breath and 
 
 jnt it forth glorified as sound- — soujid sueh as 
 
 Nothing made with men's hands in all the world 
 
 m produce. She cre»t«4/3 sonmthing divine, 
 
 rhich dip.d even as it was htj/rn, and passed intii 
 
 t 
 
04 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 the silence— silence that has absorbed so inanv 
 sweet and terrible things. She sang; she sent! 
 forth her heart, her being, her soul front hal 
 lips, like a beautiful unseen dove seeking a sirrn; 
 and there returned to her — silence. Fronrall the I 
 glorious " choir invisible" that had gone before! 
 there came back no word. And the wonder 
 and triumph, and pity of it grew upon her, sol 
 that she be<;:an to eat her heart out with loneli- 
 ness. 
 
 Her voice lifted her up to the gods; when 
 she 3turned to earth, there was no loving 
 breast for her to rest upon, no strong hands to 
 sustain her, no lips to kiss the pani of music 
 from her own, none to seal the bliss of singing' 
 into abiding joy. 
 
 Two years of this, and Judith Moore left it I 
 all, and came, in the summer preceding her 
 American debitt, to this little Canadian villa<:e 
 She had lold her manager, the only person she 
 knew well enough to write to, that he was not 
 to write. He knew where she was ; she would 
 let him know if she needed him. Let her restj 
 for just a little, she pleaded. And he agreed. 
 
 She owed everything she was to this manJ 
 who had been a friend of her father's. Pass- 
 ing through the little tow^n where they were, 
 he had come to visit them. He found his oUl 
 
JUDITH MOOUP. 
 
 95 
 
 frieiKl's funeral leaving the house. He came 
 back to see the desolate girl. Then followed the 
 discovery of her voice, and his invesbnent in 
 her as a good speculation. It was going to 
 prove one, too, though the anxiety of it had 
 given hiui a grey hair or two in his black 
 head. Yes, it had been a good speculation 
 already, for the two years' ringing abroad had 
 recouped him for all his outlay of money. The 
 American season would repay his patience, and 
 the South American tour, and the winter in 
 Russia — the ivipresario's plans stretched far 
 into the future through golden vistas of profit. 
 That Judith might have other dreams he never 
 considered. 
 
 She herself had no ^v ell-defined thought but 
 to excel in her art. She did not in the least 
 understand what was amiss with her. Not but 
 what in many dreams by night, and visions by 
 day, she had thought of a passion that was to 
 transfigure her life ; but so used was she to 
 passing from the reality of life to the dream on 
 the stage, that the visions and the verities 
 became sadly confused, and so she grew day by 
 day more eager to attain, more anxious to 
 [achieve the highest in her art, more unsparing 
 of her own efforts, always trembling just on the 
 threshold of the unknown, ahvays feeling one 
 
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 JOniTii Mo'^Rti. 
 
 more upward effort of her wings would take 
 her to the very pinnacle of song. There surely 
 grew the balm of sweet content, of satisfaction, 
 of peace. Poor Judith ! For her the real con- 
 tent lay in a green valley, far, far below these 
 perilous peaks upon which she tottered ; whereon 
 no v/oman may safely stand, it seems, with- 
 out a stronger soul beside her to sustain in time 
 of need. Her happiness lay in a valley where 
 love springs and Ijappiness flows in streams 
 about the feet, and as she aspired higher and 
 higher, and rose farther and farther into tlir 
 rarefied air which solitary success breathes, she i 
 left the Happy Valley farther and farther! 
 behind. 
 
 Had she been less evenly balanced, had her I 
 soul been less true, her heart less tender, she I 
 might in time have frozen the woman complete!), 
 and crystallized into the artiste only — or — but I 
 to think of Judith Moore sullying her wings is 
 sacrilege. 
 
 She was full of womanly tenderness and I 
 womanly vanities. She had a thousand little 
 tricks of coquetry and as many balms to eare| 
 their smart. She took a good deal of satis fac 
 tion out of her pretty gowns and her finger j 
 nails, and the contemplation of her little feet 
 becomingly shod had been known to dry her 
 
.tumTII MOORE. 
 
 97 
 
 cars. She was essentially the woman of the 
 
 ist, the woman who created a *' type " distinct 
 
 )m man; the womanly woman, rot the hybrid 
 
 feature of modern cultivation ; the woman of 
 
 3niancc. To balance this (for nowadays this 
 
 )ubtles8 needs excuse) she had a fund of sym- 
 
 itliy great enough to endow eveiy living thing 
 
 ^at suffered with pity. She had certainly that 
 
 Parity without which all other virtues are as 
 
 junding brass." She sent away those who 
 
 ime in contact witli her the better for their 
 
 jeting, and from her eyes their shone a purity 
 
 soul that had abashed some men whose eyes 
 
 long forgotten shame. 
 
 iuch was Judith Moore. 
 
 [When Andrew p.pproached the Morris house, 
 
 next day after the apple-tree episode, he saw 
 
 afar a figure in white sitting perched 
 
 )n the weather-beaten rail fence which sepa- 
 
 jd his woodland from the Morris farm. He 
 
 bened his steps, his heart beating hotly. 
 
 iith was in a repentant and somewhat shame- 
 
 8(1 mood. Upon reflection it had occurred to 
 
 that her behaviour the day before had 
 
 little less than bold. Judith had felt 
 
 |ly over it, and had even cried a bit, as 
 
 Ush women will. She was, of course, pre- 
 
 Jd to make Andrew suffer for her misdeeds 
 
 t: .: 
 
98 
 
 JUDITH MOOUE. 
 
 if lie in any way showed a recollection of ti 
 incident, and had decided to assume a vr 
 haughty mien if he dared say " feet." 
 
 Andrew's intuitions were not slow, even if 
 was only a farmer, and when he greeted lier, 
 she suddenly, sweetly, strangely blushed &% 
 looked up at him half inijuiringly, he iny 
 preted it aright. He had been amused, perlig|j 
 aroused, by her impertinence; he was tore! 
 by her unexpressed penitence. 
 
 Miss Judith had on an artful frock ; inosiil 
 her frocks were artful and well put on, 
 which is the great thing. Judith never d 
 sidered time thrown away tliat was spent adoij 
 ing her "perishing person," This particiii 
 frock was of sheer white wool, and because! 
 had a waist of the unhygienic type (and rejoifj 
 thereat exceedingly, be it told, for she 
 thoroughly unregenerate), she had it girdi 
 with a ribbon, wound round and round her 
 had huge loose sleeves of a kind not known! 
 Ovid. " Sort of night-gowny looking," Aiidn 
 said afterwards, in describing her appearance! 
 his aunt. How Miss Moore would have rai 
 at that ! Paquin, no less, had made tlij 
 sleeves. 
 
 She was careful to keep her very toes outl 
 sight this morning, and when she thouif 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 99 
 
 idrew was not looking, she ;;ave anxious little 
 Igs at her skirt to cover them yet more 
 jurely. Every one of these tu^s Andrew saw, 
 id tliey raised within him a spirit of deep indi<^- 
 Ltion. " I wish that skirt would come off in 
 ir hand— serve her ri^ht if it did," he said to 
 
 iself, aggrievedly, whilst apparently listen- 
 to Miss Moore's prophecies regarding the 
 
 itlier. 
 
 ["Going to rain in three days?" he said. "How 
 jyou know ? " 
 
 Oh," said Miss Moore, with an indescril)able 
 ^k of wisdom, " there was a big ring round the 
 
 )n last night, enclosing three stars. That 
 
 ms in three days it will atorm — of course, 
 —you'd hardly expect snow, would you ? " 
 Moore spoke a little resentfully as she con- 
 
 ied, for Andrew did not look impressed. 
 
 Well,iiO," agreed Andrew. "Did Mr. Morris 
 
 you that ? " 
 
 Yes ; we're going to shear sheep to-morrow." 
 
 What ? " Andrew was amused at the " we." 
 
 That" said Judith, who in spite of her air of 
 
 >wledge was somewhat nervous and not (juite 
 
 lin whether she had put it rightly or not. 
 
 fhear sheep " did sound queer.) 
 
 toll, you are. What else ? " 
 
 rl'm going to learn to make butter. Mrs. 
 
100 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 Morris says I liave real ' butter hands.' Tlitv 
 so cool. Feel." She laid her hand on his. 
 
 " Yes, lovely," said Andrew, f ervently : " tj 
 don't you think you ought to get wel' btfos 
 you do all this ? Stick to prophesying fur| 
 while. It's easier." 
 
 " Oh, if you're going to laugh at nie — " 
 
 "No, indeed." (Miss Moore's brows wa 
 knitted.) " I'm not really, honestly ; nevi 
 thought of such a thing." The i, persuasive] 
 " Don't you want to come and see a bir 
 nest ? " 
 
 '■ Miss Moore's attempt at bad temper col laps 
 ^ " I should think I did," she said. 
 n " Come on, then," said he. 
 
 " Oh, is it on that side ? How do I getover| 
 
 " Let me lift you." 
 
 " No, indeed ! Turn your back, and I'll juinj 
 
 " Let—" 
 
 "No!" 
 
 Andrew wheeled on his heel. There \\u\ 
 soft thud and a scramble. He turned like a ilai 
 but Miss Moore had regained her feet, and sto| 
 waiting with an expression of exagger 
 patience on her face. 
 
 "Are you ready ?" he asked. 
 
 " Oh, waiting," she answered, with emphasi 
 
 That walk was the first they ever hadi 
 
 iiliniiiil.: 
 
JUIMTH MOORE. 
 
 101 
 
 ither. Neitlier of them ever forgot it. At 
 
 moment, it seemed to pass in li<^ht-hearted 
 liter ; but beneath all this there was a sub- 
 itum of eagerness — Judith trying to get in 
 ich with this new creature at her side, this 
 )ng, unconventional, natural soul, so different 
 ^m the artificial creatures she had, known ; 
 
 Andrew feeling his heart going out beyond 
 itrol to this girl who walked so unsteadily at 
 
 side, stumbling e^-'ery now and then fron> the 
 
 jcustomed roughness of the way. 'J'hese little 
 had evidently ha:l all paths smoothed to 
 \m. (He could not guess how^ chill those 
 [ven pathways were.) How tender her eyes 
 Jw over the wild flowers, and how sweet her 
 
 when, for a moment, a serious thought came 
 
 ler ! 
 
 he wild flowers were in full luxuriance, and 
 |lith gathered an armful. They passed a dog- 
 
 d tree that stood sheeted in its white blos- 
 
 3, their petals of the texture of white kid. 
 
 hew got her some great branches of it, and 
 Jinsisted upon carrying it herself, holding all 
 
 spoil against her breast with one hand, using 
 [other to lift her gown now and then, or to 
 
 Ijk more flowers. 
 
 ler face looked out from the flowers with 
 
 ntl of rapt eagerness upon it that illumined 
 
102 
 
 .lUDITIT MOORE. 
 
 nil 
 
 I !i 
 
 iii like n li^lit. Ht^r enjoyment wan so inti 
 }i8 to be almost pMinl'nl. Tluy ha<l gone qnij 
 a distance from the Morris house, half the "n-iitftl 
 of Andrew s woods, when they came to a littij 
 hollow. A stnnim ran through it, but so Mockij 
 was its way by the buirows of moles thati 
 zigzagoe(] across and across the hollow, seoiiiii 
 almost to form loops at some points. All nk 
 its course graw the tall, pale-mauve watei-fl 
 its spikes of l)loom rising from clumps of swon 
 like leaves that grew in the stream's ed^e. 
 the farther side of the hollow a mass of wi 
 crab-apple trees were covered with their fra^ 
 pink blooms, and heaped up at one end of 
 hollow was a great mass of loose stones, pilj 
 there as thev had been gathered from the fiel^ 
 Dog-tooth violets, which love moisture, 
 thickly about their feet, th.^ir yellow and bd 
 blossoms springing from between pairs of spotM 
 leaves. Where the leaves grew singly, tliij 
 were no flowers. Here and there could be 
 a blossom of the rarer white variety, the bactl 
 its recurved petals delicately tinged with piJ 
 Close bj'^ the roots of some stumps there n 
 velvety cushions of the thick green moss so ofj 
 found in Canadian woods ; bryony vines strai 
 over these, making a rich brocade in tonesj 
 green. Tufts of coai'se ferns grew in the m 
 
JUDITH MOOKK. 
 
 ion 
 
 tho stumps, their last years froiuls withering 
 
 jsirle them, the fresli ones just be<rinning to 
 
 icurl. And framing all this in, there was tho 
 
 irtaiu of trees in the fii*st freshness of foliage. 
 
 [For a moment, in Judith's mind dream and 
 
 ility became confused. The little glade so 
 
 ictly simulated a well-set scene. There was 
 
 nothing artificial in the piled-up stones ; in the 
 
 jam which made so much of itself in going 
 
 ill a short distance. It was so usual for her 
 
 stand before the footlights with her arms 
 
 ll of flowers. And the man at her side — she 
 
 \ked at hin), ami in a moment realized how 
 
 i))letely and artistically he was in accord with 
 
 environment. His strong, bronzed face, his 
 
 16, tall form, his expression, his dress, the look 
 
 itter comprehension w^ith which his eyes took 
 
 ithe scene, over which her eyes lingered in 
 
 lil— all this was apparent to her at once. 
 
 was well used to considering the " vr ' e " 
 
 his or that upon the scene, and she told 
 
 self the unities were surely satisfied now. 
 
 I Are you pleased ? " he asked. 
 
 [I'm simply charmed," she said. " It is too 
 
 itiful to be real." 
 
 di," he said, "that's where you make a 
 ike. It is only beautiful enough to be 
 
 
104 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 I 'II 
 
 1*11) 
 
 Slio looked at liim. - 
 
 . " You are tired," he went on, without waitin 
 for an answer. " I've brought you too far. WiJ 
 you sit down ?" ^ -^ -'.u: : '■> \;'r.r^-f.' :■ 
 
 " Yes, I think so. I really am awfully stronj] 
 only I soon ^et tired." 
 
 " Exactly ; one of the signs of j^reat strcn-t 
 Oh, come, don't get cross." 
 
 "I hate being lauglied at; you're bad to wA 
 she said pettishly. 
 
 Andrew was smitten to the heart. He b('{,'ai 
 to think he'd been a brute. 
 
 He took off his coat, making no apoloj 
 therefor. It did not occur to him that there wil 
 anything wrong in shirt sleeves. He spread 
 at the foot of a stump. 
 
 "You sit down there ana rest," he said, "ail 
 I'll go get you some more floweis." 
 
 " Don't you want to rest ? " she iii«]uin 
 solicitously. 
 
 " No, I'm not tired," he answered gravel}', 
 wouldn't laugh at her again in a hurry ! 
 
 " Well, hurry back." 
 
 So she watched him pick his way across 
 little hollow to the twisted and gnarled crabtro 
 And as she watched there stole over her eagi 
 spirit the first whift' of that peace which n 
 soon to settle so sweetly upon her heart- 
 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 105 
 
 jstful recognition of the joy of calm ; and 
 ill was blended with the bitter sweet scent of 
 Lhe crab blossoms and the ineffable savour of 
 Ipring woods. 
 
 Andrew was soon back at her side with a sheaf 
 
 ^f flag lilies and big branches of apple blooms ; 
 
 id Judith for the first tini** held real crab- 
 
 Ipple blossoms in her hands, with their perfume, 
 
 lat mingling of Marah and myrrh, rising to her 
 
 incense from a censer. She had long known 
 
 le distilled perfume ; how different this living 
 
 igrance was. Something of this she told 
 
 idrew. 
 
 " Yes," he said, " I understand you exactly, 
 [ou won't like the manufactured stuff any more, 
 [never could eat canned salmon after eating the 
 il article fresh from the stream where I'd 
 jkught it." 
 
 Miss Moore looked at him. 
 He laughed outright at her expression of 
 fsgust. 
 
 I" Was it very awful to liken crab blooms to 
 hnon ? They're much of the same colour." 
 I" Don't dare say another word," said Miss 
 
 )re. " You're horrid." 
 [Andrew reddened and looked a little stiff. 
 Miss Moore eyed him furtively. " Mr. Cutler ? " 
 r Yes." 
 
 8 
 
 I ' 
 
106 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 " Would you like me to siii^ to you ? " 
 
 Like a child Miss Moore proffered her l)i|,'gest| 
 bribe first. 
 
 "Rather," said Andrew, with eiuphasis, forget | 
 ting his dignity. " I should think I would." 
 
 Seeing him so eager, Miss Moore was minddl 
 to postpone his pleasure a bit. " What shall 1 
 sing ? " .she asked. 
 
 "Anything — your favourite, anything yo« 
 like, only sing," And she sang a song Ijij 
 Rosetti, beginning — 
 
 "A little while, a little love 
 
 The hour yet bears for thee and me 
 Who have not drawn the veil to see 
 • ' "^ If still our heaven be lit above." 
 
 And which ends — 
 
 '* Not yet the end ; be our lips dumb 
 In smiles a little season yet, 
 I'll tell thee, when the end is come, 
 How we may best forget." 
 
 When it was over he turned and looked 
 her as at a marvel. What manner of woiiiai 
 was this ? The one moment a curious child, tlij 
 next, a proud woman ; again, a poor, little tir 
 girl, i*nd then — how should he name this sId 
 ing angel. 
 
 Miss Moore was used to homage and applausi 
 
jrniTH MOOUE. 
 
 107 
 
 laiul wont to HOC people moved by her Hinging, 
 Ibut never a tribute had been more sweet to her 
 [than the look in this countryman's eyes. 
 
 " I will sing again," she said, and began a little 
 |Scotch song. 
 
 Afterwards Miss Moore was sorry about this, 
 md thought bitterly that she could not, even for 
 in hour, put aside the rdle ot* the opera singer 
 ;king to play upon her public. For she had 
 mn taught the value of appealing to sentiment 
 a factor towards success, and many a night, 
 fcfter singing the most intricate operas, she had 
 ssponded to the encore by singing " Home, 
 Jweet Home " or " Annie Laurie," or .some other 
 jiniple peasant ballad that touches the heart. 
 is a trick prima donnas all have. 
 The song she sang Andrew was " Jock o' Hazel - 
 lean "; the story of the high-born girl who lo' ed 
 ;k o' Hazeldean. Who was he, we wonder. 
 lis fascinating Jock, of Hazeldean, smacks more 
 the Merrie Greenwood than of broad domains. 
 |ut at any rate he must have been right worthy 
 be loved, else sucli a leal, brave-hearted, beauti- 
 |1 girl had not loved him. Torn, too, she was 
 stween two thoughts — her family, her plighted 
 )th, riches and — Jock — so that 
 
 " Whene'er she loot 
 The tears doon fa' 
 For Jock o' Hazeldean." 
 
108 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 For she had made up lier mind evidently to 
 give him up, but these treacherous tears betrayed 
 themselves whenever slie bent her head, and 
 when a woman's heart is breaking she cannot 
 always hold her head high. And in the end 
 they nearly married her to the " Lord of Erring j 
 ton." But— 
 
 "The kirk was decked at morning tide, 
 
 The tapers glimmered fair. 
 Both priest and bridegroom wait the bride, 
 
 And dame and knight were there. 
 They sought her then by bower and ha' ; 
 
 The lady wasna seen — 
 She's ower the border, and awa 
 
 With Jock o' Hazeldean." 
 
 Well Judith Moore sang the words of M 
 song, but she did more. Her vibrant voice eij 
 pressed all the pathos, the romance, the tender] 
 ness, that lives between the words ; and in tin 
 last two lines there was a sort of timoroii 
 triumph, as of one who has gained victory ova 
 the world, her family, her own fears, and m 
 to her lover's breast, and yet trembles in lit] 
 triumph. Women do not give themselves ev(^ 
 to their best beloved without tears. 
 
 This was in reality the great charm of Juditlij 
 singing — a charm no perfection of method, l^ 
 quality of tone could have produced. She fe! 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 109 
 
 the lull significance of everything she sang, and 
 had that sympathetic magnetism which creates 
 [its own moods in others. That is fascination, 
 ^hat is i/he secret of these women at whose 
 )wer the world has wondered, v/hose loves 
 lave been the passions of history, whose whims 
 lave legislated the affairs of kingdoms. 
 
 "Don't sing any more," Andrew said when 
 ^he finished. "I've had eno^igh for one day. 
 
 fi' r f 
 
 " You feel my music as I do myself," she said 
 )ftly. " It is almost pain." 
 
 Presently they went back through the woods, 
 lore silently than they had come, and yet 
 
 ippier. Judith looked up at him once or twice 
 rith no veil of laughter on her eyes. He was 
 irilled with the expression he found there ; 
 
 nv it seemed a steadfast ray of unselfish reso- 
 |ltion, again a yearning so poignant that it 
 
 lost unnerved him. He showed her the nest 
 the furrows. 
 
 * In a little while there will be birds in the 
 
 it," he said. 
 
 " Oh, I'll come and watch it every day." 
 
 "You must not come too often or stay too 
 
 ig," he said, " or the bird will get frightened 
 forsake her nest — fly away and never come 
 
 ;k." 
 
110 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 'hu 
 
 " Oh, surely not fly away from that nest, i 
 Judith cried. To her that rough little wisp of | 
 coiled gra38 and horsehair represiiiited the per- 
 fection of bird architecture. 
 
 "If you would only come to the house —my i 
 house over there on the hill," said Andrew, 
 flushing a little and very eager; "my auiitl 
 would like you to so much, and I would sliowj 
 you a lot of nests. We have more birds there' 
 (suddenly feeling very proud of this fact) " thaD| 
 anywhere else in the county." 
 
 " Oh, I'd like to ever so much," said Juditk] 
 " Youi aunt ? " 
 
 " Suppose I send ray aunt over to see you 
 said Andrew, quite ignorant of the etiquette oil 
 calls, but hitting it off* well in his ignorancel 
 "She'll come to visit Mrs. Morris, and then,of| 
 course, if you care to see her, she'll be so glad 
 ask you to come over." 
 
 " Does your aunt /isit the Morrises ? " askeii| 
 Judith, with some surprise. 
 
 " Why, of course ; we only live a mile awajj 
 said Andrew, entirely oblivious of the complij 
 ment to himself. 
 
 "Oh, yes, of couKie," said Judith, hastily] 
 feeling mean. 
 
 Finally they said " Good-bye." Andrew ha 
 gone but a few steps when she called him. 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 Ill 
 
 " Wait a moment. When do you think your 
 jaunt will come ? " 
 
 "Soon; not to-morrow, she's going to town, 
 [perhaps next day. Why ? " 
 
 " Oh, 1 want to put on a pretty frock," she 
 [said candidly. 
 
 " Well," said Andrew, with conviction, " j'ou 
 m't beat that one." 
 
 Miss Moore went back to the house. A weather- 
 )eaten frame house it was, with a weather-vane 
 the shape of a horse on top. When the horse's 
 lose pointed over Judith's window, the wind was 
 ist ; when it seemed to gallop in the direction 
 )f the kitchen, it was west ; when it made for 
 ^e village, it was south, and when it looked with 
 longing eye, apparently, at the stables, it was 
 )rth. Mr. Morris explained this to Judith on 
 average once a day, but she always got it 
 lixed. 
 
 Mrs. Morris was vigorously making pies when 
 fudith entered. 
 " Baking ? " said Judith. 
 
 "Yes," said Mrs. Morris, breaking the crisp 
 ilks of rhubarb into little pieces. " Yes, I'm 
 ire I'm going to have company " (she broke the 
 3t piece of rhubarb with a snap and commenced 
 )lling out her paste with soft thuds). "Yes, 
 nnpany's coming sure. I dropped my dishcloth 
 
 p. ^ I 
 
112 
 
 JUDtTH MoOftE. 
 
 %m' 
 
 11 
 
 i 
 
 three times this morning, and then the oil 
 brahma, lie just stood on that doorstep and 
 crowed for all he was worth. I never knowed 
 that bird to crow on that doorstep without 
 strange feet soon stood on it." 
 
 Mrs. Morris covered her pie, and then holding 
 the pie plate upon the fingers of one hand, dex 
 terously ran a knife around the edge, trimming 
 off a ring of paste that fell on her arm ; then 
 she dabbed it with a fork and put it in the oven 
 
 "I want something to put my flowers in 
 said Judith. " May I take some of those big 
 earthen jars out there ? " pointing to the opeo 
 door of the pantry, within which stood soiw 
 old-fashioned, rough, grey crocks. 
 
 " Yes," said Mrs. Morris, absent-mindedly, as 
 she carefully " tried ' a cake with a straw from 
 the broom to see if it was done ; " ves " — theo 
 coming back to sublunary matters as she shut 
 the oven door, " But sake's alive, child, you dent 
 want them things to put them in ! I'll get you 
 the scissora and some string so you can cut the 
 blows off^ them apple branches and make good 
 round bunches, and there's some posy pots I 
 bought in town one day. I'll get them to pui 
 them in." 
 
 Judith's heart sank. She was too afraid oi 
 hurting Mrs. Morris' feelings to say anythinj 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 113 
 
 )ut when that busy woman appeared with some 
 lideous blue and green and gilt atrocities, a 
 )right thought struck her. 
 
 "Oh, Mrs. Morris," she said, "those are too 
 lice altogether. Just let me use the jars : those 
 light get broken." 
 
 " Well," said Mrs. Morris, pausing in the 
 
 iooY of th sitting-room, " they be only wild 
 
 [rabs and dogwood blows. It would be a pity 
 
 risk it, maybe." So she took back the vases 
 
 [nd replaced the bouquets of everlastings in 
 
 iem, feeling she had done her duty to her 
 
 )arder, but glad that matters had arranged 
 
 loraselves as they had. 
 
 So Judith got out the jars and tilled them 
 ^ith great bunches of the dogwood, which gives 
 ich a Japanesque effect of blossom on bare 
 ranch, and with the apple blossoms, the wild 
 Ks mingling its dainty mauve equally well 
 fith each. 'Flien she leaned back against the 
 )r jamb (she was sitting on the doorstep), and 
 family listened to Mrs. Morris. 
 What a strange medley of criticism, informa- 
 )n, prophecy and humour the talk of such a 
 )man is, all given forth with no coherence, no 
 [uence of ideas, the disjecta 'iiiemhra of a 
 )usand gossipy stories, the flotsam and jetsam 
 the slow-flowing stream of country life ; now 
 
 I.! 
 

 114 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 and then hitting off, as if by chance, a word or 
 two which is a complete characterization of i 
 person or place ; now and then piercintj^ to tlie 
 heart of some vital human truth ; now and thei 
 sowing a seed of scandal to bring forth bitter- 
 ness ; now and then by a pause, a sigh or a 
 word revealing the griefs of a homely heart, anii 
 always perpetuating a hundred harmless conceit« 
 of fancy, signs, warnings, and what Mrs. Mom 
 called, " omings that mean something." 
 
 Mis. Morris was popularly considered tlifj 
 most talkative woman in Ovid, always except- 
 ing Bill Aikins' wife who had so far distanceii 
 the others as to fairly outclass them. Somfrl 
 times Mrs. Morris wearied Judith to death witll 
 her tongue, but out of the resources of 
 generous heart, which always could furuislj 
 excuse? for everybody, Judith found palliatioi 
 for Mrs. Morris' fault. There was a certaii] 
 plot in the unkempt little graveyard in 
 wherein were live tiny graves ; over eacl! 
 was a coverlet of straggly clove pinks, and 
 each of the little sleepers had been bori 
 away from the farm-house by the woods. Noi| 
 and then, but rarely, Mrs. Morris spoke of 
 these babies. Their united ages would 
 have numbered half a dozen years; but Mri| 
 Morris, with the strange divination of mother 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 115 
 
 lood, had seen in their infantile ways the 
 
 Indications of distinctive character, so that each 
 
 if tliese dead children had as individual a place 
 
 |n her memory as though it had worked and 
 
 rept and wearied itself into old age. And to 
 
 fudith this seemed excuse enough for poor 
 
 Shattering Mrs. Morris. All the breath other 
 
 lotliers use in speaking to their children, all 
 
 |he time they spend in silent thought about 
 
 leni and for them, was barren to this lonely 
 
 Id woman. " Who could wonder then that 
 
 10 wants to talk a bit ? " Judith one day said 
 
 Andrew, v istfully, when he was laughing 
 
 Mrs. Morris' tongue. Indeed, Judith's tender 
 
 res pierced deep down into the depths 
 
 these people's hearts. The ugly gossip, the 
 
 leering spite, the malignant whisperings she 
 
 sard, filled her with a pity divine enough to 
 
 )wn the dis;^ust which their backbiting and 
 
 wanness awakened. The pity of it ! she 
 
 lought, looking at the miracle of the sum- 
 
 ir fields beneath the summer sky ; the upward 
 
 )iration of every blade of grass, of every tiny 
 
 rig, of every little Morning Glory seedling, 
 
 riving to lift itself up, stretching forth its 
 
 idrils towards anything that would bear it 
 
 jher ; everything reaching towards the light. 
 
 d these people, surrounded by the strong 
 
116 
 
 JUDITH MOOKE. 
 
 silent stimulus of nature, goin^ with their » v ,, 
 fixed upon the clods, or at most raised but tj 
 the level of their own heads, striving to j^'iaJ 
 some puny self-glorification, letting the m 
 gold of life run through their fingers like sah I 
 whilst with eager palms they snatched at tl ^^ 
 base alloys which corroded their hands ! 
 
 When Judith heard one woman say of anotli 
 " She's a most terrible nice woman. She woH 
 like a horse," she did not feel as much liU 
 laughing at the narrowness of the vision wliicll 
 pronounced such judgment, as weeping, that lif^ 
 had ways which people trod wherein briui 
 physical exertion seemed the highest good. 
 will be seen that Judith had a tender and M 
 cerning eye to penetrate the pains and soiro^v!| 
 of others, but she could not decipher her om| 
 heart yet. It is hard to get one's self in i 
 perspective. It would indeed be a gift froiiitli(| 
 gods if we could see ourselves. 
 
 m 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 "He who sinj^s 
 To fill the highest purpose, need not soar 
 Above the lintel of the peasant's door." 
 
 Before the Morris house there stretched a 
 
 ice of unkempt grass, broken by three or 
 
 |>ur irregular flower beds, upon which the grass 
 
 iroached, from which the flowers sometimes 
 
 rayed afield. In these beds were clumps of 
 
 iquils — "yeller petticoats," Mrs. Morris called 
 
 ^em— and there were heavy headed daffodils, 
 
 jhich, to Judith's delight, she dubbed dafF'down- 
 
 lies. There were patches of purple iris, too, 
 
 (id through one of the beds the sturdy roseate 
 
 jms of the common paeony wore pushing their 
 
 ly. A big bush of flowering currant was 
 
 [vered with its yellow flowers, murmurous 
 
 [th hundreds of bees, for they are very sweet. 
 
 le stems of the florets are bitten off" by children 
 
 get a drop of honey in each, just as in the 
 
 rets of a clover bloom. 
 
 |Up and down the sanded pathway leading to 
 
 p. Morris' front door paced Judith Moore, 
 
 ' fi 
 
118 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 two (lays after Andrew's visit. She had on a 
 brown frock, girdled with a filigreed belt of 
 silver gilt ; a bunch of jonquils at her bosom 
 caught together the folds of some soft old lace; 
 her heels added a good two inches to her stature, 
 and she felt herself to be very well turned out, 
 
 It was warm ; the robins were building nesk 
 Presently one ttew by with a scrap of brilliant 
 red wool, and in a moment or two flew down 
 from the gable of the house, and regaled itself 
 with a long worm which it had spied from afar 
 It despatched its lunch with gusto, cocked its 
 head on one side, preened the feathers of its 
 wings with its foot, as ono would run the hand 
 through the hair, and then started in on it« 
 house-building again. " From labour to refresh- 
 ment," thought Judith. 
 
 She herself was in a state of tremulous happi- 
 ness; her being, freed from all artificial restraints, 
 released from all conventional bonds, was unfold- 
 ing, as naturally as the flower buds to the sun- 
 shine; her thoughts, no longer bent exclusively 
 upon her art, no longer dwelling upon the next| 
 triumph, found for themselves new and un- 
 expected pathways. For the firat time she gavel 
 herself up to the perilous pleasure of intix)-! 
 spection. In " sessions of sweet silent thought' 
 her fragmentary dreams and ideals of life, lovel 
 
.irniTH MOORE. 
 
 119 
 
 and nature, wore attunin|^ theinsclves to a true 
 and eager aspiration to be worthy the best gift 
 of each. Her heart — well, her heart had not 
 been awakened yet. Like the great white lilies 
 Miss Myers' garden, it was yet half asleep, 
 
 in 
 
 but stirring within it was the sweetness of 
 spring, of springing life, and love, and the first 
 poignant sweetness of self -consciousness. The 
 lilies were yet only putting forth feeble leaves, 
 as if to test what manner of upper world wooed 
 them to put forth a blossom. So the little 
 tender impulses of Judith's heart were yet 
 very timorous. But the lilies would bloom in 
 good time — and the heart ? 
 
 Judith was still pacing back and forth when a 
 
 tall, angular figure, in a black cashmere gown and 
 
 a broad black shade hat, appeared in the gateway, 
 
 followed decorously by a melancholy red setter, 
 
 whose melancholy and good manners vanished 
 
 simultaneously as a cat, walking speculatively 
 
 round the corner of the house, caught his eye. 
 
 Rufus vanished, with the cat in a good lead. 
 
 jRufus' acceptance of the possibilities of the 
 
 jBituation had been so prompt, the cat's transition 
 
 [from a dreamer to a fugitive had been so sudden 
 
 [that Judith forgot the propitiatory smile with 
 
 ^hich she had intended to greet Miss Myera, 
 
 md gave a regular peal of laughter. 
 
120 
 
 JUDITH M<X)UE. 
 
 Miss Myei'H had come to call, or, as she herself 
 put it, ha<l " come to visit a spell with Mrs. 
 Morris." 
 
 " Oh, the pool cat ! " said Judith, not knowing 
 very well what to say, and getting rather red. 
 
 "Is it your cat? I'm real sorry. Rufus is 
 always hard on cats. There's one cat in the 
 village though — but there, you must be tlie 
 boarder. I'm real glad to see you." 
 
 " Yes," said Judith, " I'm Judith Moore, and 
 you must be Miss Myers; I know you by the dog. 
 
 Then a quick senso of the vision she had just 
 had of Rufus, the eager outstretched nose, the 
 flying heels whisking past the side of the house, 
 the cat's hysteric spitting as she turned and fltd 
 — this made Judith catch her breath. 
 
 Miss Myers laughed grimly. It was her 
 fortune always to look grim, even when she 
 wept. Afterwards, Judith knew that Miss 
 Myers had thoroughly appreciated the humour 
 of the situation, and had loved Judith " from 
 the minute I set eyes on her/' as Miss Myei-s 
 said. Perhaps, out of loyalty to Andrew, Miss 
 Myers exaggerated a little her first feeling 
 toward Judith, but for that kindly exaggeration j 
 one could gather her in one's arms. 
 
 Great indeed must be the love of that woman I 
 who is willing to accept, nay, even help, to win 
 
JUDITH MOOUE. 
 
 121 
 
 the woman who is to displace her in the aftec- 
 tiona of one with whom she has from babyhood 
 l)ee'i first. Ai I that is the doom of all women 
 wIk) rear cliihlren, wliether their own or not ; to 
 nui'se them, watch them, pray for them, pain- 
 fully perhaps ; keep them as pure as may be ; 
 make them as true as [wssible ; and then some 
 (lay have them brin^ a stranger, a boy or girl, 
 of whom they have bereft some other woman, 
 ami say, " Look, this is my best beloved." Is 
 not that a great leward for which to fast, and 
 thirst, and labour ? And yet that is the good 
 guerdon gained by many a woman whose name, 
 if but grante<l the right meed of praise, would 
 be written in letters of gold on a silver sky. 
 
 Recognizing this, what tenderness should not 
 be felt towards such w^omen, what gratitude 
 I accorded them for the good gift they have 
 rendered up ? 
 
 Mrs. Morris came fussily to the door. " Miss 
 
 [Myers, let me make you acquainted with Miss 
 
 [Moore. Come right in ; sit down. Won't take 
 
 )tt* your things ? Well, now, that's real mean ! 
 
 quite expected you'd come for a good visit. 
 
 Whatever be these dogs a-yelping at? Well, it 
 
 )eats all ! Just look at 'em," pointing out at 
 
 |he sitting-room window, which gave a view of 
 
 he oi*chard. 
 9 
 
 I 
 
122 
 
 JUDITH MOCRE, 
 
 In the cleft of an apple-tree, just beyond the 
 reach of the dogs' leaps, sat the cat, an insultinj; 
 indifference expressed in every line of her 
 crouching shape, turning a calm countenance to 
 her impotent foes. The collie, seduced by the 
 example of Rufus, had cast aside the veneer of 
 amity overlying his natural instinct, and now 
 careened round and round the tree trunk, mak- 
 ing futile leaps at the cat ; whilst Ru^'us stood 
 uttering the characteristically mournful bark of 
 his breed, and waving his feathery tail as if 
 courtesy might induce the cat to descend and 
 be worried. However, the cat vvas an old- 
 stager. Her narrowed eyes gleamed venomously, 
 and she thought evil thoughts, but that was all. 
 
 " Old Tab '11 tire them dogs out before thej 
 get througli with her," said Mrs. Morris, placidly: 
 and sometime later, when the ladies looked forth 
 again, the cat was delicately walking along the I 
 top of the board fence, and the two dogs were in 
 full cry after a squirrel. It is probable that 
 those dogs, before they slept that night, won- 
 dered many a time and oft what trees were I 
 created for, if not specially intended to deprive | 
 decent dogs of a little legitimate sport. 
 
 Mrs. Morris, when she had no company, 1 
 occupied her spare time in " teazing " the wool 
 shorn from the sheep, preparatory to sending it 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 123 
 
 to the woollen mill ; but she did not bring this 
 work into the sitting-room. She brought in her 
 braided mat. First she sewed strips of cloth 
 together, and when she had three differently 
 coloured balls made, she braided them into a flat 
 strand, then she sewed that round and round, 
 till it grew into a mat. All the rag carpets in 
 Mrs. Morris' house were bestrewn with these 
 mats, placed at irregular inter vals, but practice 
 and instinct so guided Mrs. Morris' feet, that she 
 never^ by any chance, no matter how engrossed 
 she might be in other mattera, stepped upon a 
 space of carpet. There was something very 
 interesting alx)ut this. She did it so uncon- 
 sciously, so accurately, like an erratic automaton. 
 It is true this practice did not conduce to a 
 Delsartean evenness of step: ami indeed, Mrs. 
 Morris, when walking through the fields, or 
 along the road, carried in her gait the replica of 
 the floor plan of her first three rooms Through 
 the front room, the sitting-room, the kitchen 
 tliat was the course she mapped upon the road 
 she travelled again and again. The wily Vivien 
 would not have won readily the secret of Mrs. 
 Morris' woven paces. 
 
 Miss Myers took off her shade hat and held it 
 |on her lap. Judith sat prettily erect, bending 
 iforward now and then, as if alert to answer Miss 
 
 
i^^r^f^^mm 
 
 124 
 
 JUDITH MOOllE. 
 
 %m 
 
 Myers' commonplaces— a flattering attitude that. 
 Mrs. Morris braided her strands firmly, lookintf 
 benignantly over her spectacles, which, havinf 
 slipped down to the very point of her nose, by 
 some miracle preserved a tentative hold. Their 
 precarious position gave Miss A y^ers "nerves." 
 She clasped her thin hands tightly " to stiddy 
 herself up." 
 
 They talked of the every-day incidents of 
 their homely lives. The first question that 
 came up was house-cleaning, a very vital matter 
 to the country housewife in spring and autumn. 
 Of course, these two women, being notable 
 house-keepers, had theirs done long ago, but 
 there were others — well, neither of these ladies 
 wished to make remarks, least of all about tlieir 
 neighbours, still — 
 
 Then they discussed the proper time for pick- 
 ing the geese (that is, denuding the live geese of 
 the feathers they would otherwise lose), and 
 both had often noticed the wilful waste of tiie 
 Greens, in letting their geese go unplucked, so 
 that the village street was snowed with wasted j 
 feathers which floated about in the air, or sailed, 
 the most fragile of crafts, in the little water- 
 cressed stream. This led naturally to the I 
 mysterious disappearance of Hiram Green's 
 twelve geese, a story retohl for Judith's benefit 
 
JUDITH MOOKE. 
 
 m 
 
 Once when Hiram Green was breakin^j in a 
 colt in his barn-yard, the dogs frightened it, and 
 between Hiram's shouts, the dogs' barks and the 
 colt's plunging, the geese, twelve in number, 
 took unto themselves wings and flew away. The 
 fact that they were able to do this reflected 
 directly upon Hiram's management, and pro- 
 nounced it poor, for, of course, he should have 
 taken the precaution of clipping the feathers of 
 one wing, as every one did, to prevent just such 
 losses. However, the geese flew away. In the 
 excitement of the moment the direction of their 
 flight was unnoted, but willing volunteers spread 
 the news, and defined the ownership of any stray 
 ^'eese which might be found. The Homes live<l 
 in a house very near the crest of the hill upon 
 the south ; so near to the top was it, that it 
 gave the impression of wanting to sneak away 
 out of sight of the village. It seemed to with- 
 draw itself from the village gaze and had a 
 secretive and uncommunicative look. Perhaps 
 the house did not really deserve this description, 
 but popular opinion accorded it. The Homes 
 were aliens to Ovid ; no one knew much about 
 [them, and that in itself is a grievance in such a 
 Iplace as Ovid. Well, a zealous searcher for the 
 (cceje inquired of Mrs. Home for tidings of them. 
 [Mrs. Home, standing upon her doorstep, regretted 
 
 f 31 
 
126 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 Hiram's loss and deplored not having seen them. 
 The messenger departed. But " people talk ed '' as 
 people w ill when such coincidences occur — wlien 
 on the next market day Mr. Home sold twelve 
 fine fat geese, whilst his own ^pursued the even 
 tenor of their way unmolested. 
 
 There was no proof of mal-appropriation, for 
 a dead goose does not usually bear many dis- 
 tinctive marks of individuality — still, people 
 talked. And the next day, when Mrs. Home 
 bought ticking in Hiram's store, to make a couple 
 of pillows, Hiram felt aggrieved as he tied 
 it up, and vaguely wondered if this was not 
 " seething the kid in its mother's milk." Neither 
 Miss Myers nor Mrs. Morris committed herself 
 to any definite expression of opinion as to the 
 Homes' responsibility in the matter, for neither 
 of them wished to give the other the opportunity 
 of quoting her verdict, but they shook their 
 heads at each other, and raised their eyebrows 
 and pursed up their lips, and then abruptly 
 branched off to another question, which happened \ 
 to be virhether or not it was advisable to soak | 
 carrot seeds in water before planting — thej 
 implied decision in the goose question amount- 
 ing practictilly to the "Not Proven" verdict of I 
 the Scotch courts, than which nothing is iuore| 
 damning. 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 127 
 
 At last Mrs. Morris' spectacles did fall of, and 
 Miss Myers' nervous start had a good deal of 
 relief in it. A crisis is best over. 
 
 Old Mr. Morris came in, and began to discuss 
 the death of Sam Symmons' mare. Not having 
 been present at the consultation regarding her, 
 he was absolutely certain that she had not been 
 accorded the proper treatment. " Might have 
 been the right treatment for an ellef ung, but not 
 for a hoss, no, not for a boss, not by no means." 
 Then he gave a long and critical dissertation 
 upon the merits of each remedy used, proving 
 conclusively, at least to himself, that in the case 
 of Sam's mare they were all so much poison. 
 Miss Myers must come out and see his sorrel 
 filly. " Thpre was a filly like a filly, not such 
 another in the country ! " So they all strolled 
 out to the board fence, and looked at the clean- 
 limbed little sorrel, whilst Mr. Morris dilated 
 upon her good points. A man is always frankly 
 and irrepressibly egotistical upon two subjects 
 —his horses and his judgment. 
 
 Miss Myei's did not go back to the house, and 
 Mrs. Morris and Judith strolled with her to the 
 gate. They bade each other good-bye there, 
 Mias Myers sniffing at a twig of lemon balm 
 which she had gathered. Judith and Mi-s. 
 Morris were to visit Miss Myei*s two days later. 
 
128 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 Little had been said about Andrew, but enougli 
 to show Judith that he was the very apple of 
 Miss Myers' eye. 
 
 " Sarah Myers thinks a powerful sight of 
 Ar^rew Cutler," said Mrs. Morris. "It seems 
 sort of heathenish to be so set on any one. I 
 don't hold with it. Well, if you hain't got no 
 children to laugh with, you hain't got none to 
 cry over." The yearning of her empty mother- 
 heart had taught her this pitiable philosopliy. 
 
 It was three o'clock when Mrs. Morris and 
 Judith reached the Cutler house on the hill. 
 
 Mr. Morris had driven them as far as the 
 village in the democrat waggon. He stopped at 
 the blacksmith shop, and they alighted, to walk 
 through the village to their destination, whilst 
 he went on an errand to town. There were very 
 few people to be seen on the village streets. 
 
 Tommy Slick and his dog Nip met them. 
 Tommy looked very guileless, with round face, 
 beautifully tinted white and pink, big clear eyes 
 and " lips depressed, as he were meek." In his 
 hands he carried a horse's halter and a tin pail. 
 Nip followed, with limply hanging tail, lowered 
 nose and hunched- up shoulders, but an expres- 
 sion not so wholly deprecating as his attitude. 
 When Tommy looked meek, and Nip innocent, 
 
JUt)lTtt MOORE. 
 
 129 
 
 it behooved the villn-ge to be wary ; there was 
 some mischief afoot. 
 
 "There's that Slick limb," said Mrs. Morris. 
 " I'll be bound he ain't up to no good ; and that 
 dog of his, look at it ! " 
 
 " It looks hungry," said Judith. 
 
 "Then I'll go bail there's no vittles in the 
 village if that dog's going empty," said Mrs. 
 Morris. (Some memory seemed struggling for 
 utterance.) 
 
 Judith changed the subject and took up 
 Tommj 's case. 
 
 " He looks a nice little chap, and he's got a 
 lovely complexion," said she. 
 
 " It don't matter how he's complected. He's a 
 Slick," said Mrs. Morris, with decision. " And 
 being a Slick ain't no recommend for a church 
 member ; he's got brothers that has been in 
 ^sxA, that young one has ; there's Indian blood 
 in the Slicks. Did you hear any noise when 
 Tommy passed ? No, nor you never will. He 
 goes pad, pad along, regular flat-footed Indian 
 fashion — all the Slicks do — no good honest heel- 
 and-toe about them. One of his sisters, the one 
 I married over Kneeland way, is just like a squaw 
 (for all the world. They say it was the great- 
 [great- grandmother on the Slick side was a 
 Bquaw — she came from near Brantford." 
 
, i 
 
 130 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 'mm 
 
 -■\ \ \t 
 
 ,L^.^.JA 
 
 "I thought Indians were all dark-skinned," 
 ventured Judith, "and that boy certainly—" 
 
 " Well, if his face ain't complected like them, 
 you can depend on it his heart is," interrupted 
 Mrs. Morris, in a tone suggestive of rising 
 temper. 
 
 " There's the Slick house now," she said in a 
 voice which indicated that the name of Slick 
 was malodorous to her. She pointed to a 
 rickety, rough plaster house which they were 
 passing. In the doorway stood a frowsy woman, 
 her arms akimbo, her fingers and palms stained 
 a deep purple. • 
 
 "Good afternoon, Mrs. Slick. Been dyeing?" 
 said Mrs. Morris, affably, as they came abreast 
 of her. 
 
 " Good day. Yes," said the woman, curtly. 
 
 Upon the clothes-line at the eqd of the house 
 some garments, dipped in purple dye, liiingj 
 drying. 
 
 " Them '11 streak when they dry," said Mi's. 
 Morris, in the discriminating tone of one who 
 knows. 
 
 Judith wondered vaguely where she had seen | 
 that peculiar purple colour ; later she remem- 
 bered that the outside of the tin pail Tommy | 
 Slick carried, had been smeared with it. 
 
 Hiram Green greeted them from his shop! 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 131 
 
 door as they passed, and Bill Aikins' wife gave 
 them a brisk salutation, without pausing in her 
 work of " sweeping up " her door steps They 
 passed the school-house ; the chiWren were out 
 at recess. Mrs. Morris' brow contracted, and her 
 voice was a little querulous when she spoke next. 
 
 " Seems to nie cnildren grow powerful noisy 
 these times" she said. " I disrenieniber that they 
 used to be so when I was little." 
 
 They turned the corner. Hiram Green's 
 house was the last one in the village. It was a 
 brick house, built flush with the street. It had 
 six windows in front, and these winrlows had 
 been considered very original and genteel, 
 when Hiram had them put in. For, instead of 
 being the ordinary oblong windows, the tops of 
 tliese were semicircular. Hiram had intended 
 at first to have the semicircle tilled with glass, 
 but decided, from economic reasons, to substitute 
 wood. These wooden tops conveyed the impres- 
 sion of the windows having eyebrows, and gave 
 a supercilious air to the whole house, which was 
 a very good indication of the attitude of Hiram 
 Green and his daughters to their neighbours, 
 j There was a, Mrs. Green, but she was one of those 
 hard-worked nonentities, never considered in 
 [tho polity of the household save as a labour- 
 [saving agent. The Misses Green were usually 
 
.■ I 1 1 Jl^*l»»w^»«p 
 
 132 
 
 JUDITH MOOKE. 
 
 to be seen on a fine afternoon either on tlie 
 " stoop," or by the open parlour windows. Mrs. 
 Green was never visible ; she was obliteraH 
 beneath the burden of work she bore upon her 
 patient shoulders. 
 
 The Misses Green were out in force as Judith 
 and Mrs. Morris we^it by. Enshrined in tl?eir 
 midst was a sallow younj^ Methodist clergyman, 
 somewhat meagre-looking, but with a counten- 
 ance i'ull of content. He fairly gaped after 
 Judith. Mrs. Morris greeted the Misses (ireen 
 coldly. She did not like them. Their mother 
 and Mrs. Morris had been friends in girlhood, 
 and Mrs. Morris had a poor opinion of her old 
 friend's daughters. " Hester Green's got no spunk 
 or she would not stand it," she said with 
 asperity, and added, " Poor thing ! " 
 
 Mrs. Green's wistful eyes looked at them from 
 the kitchen window, where she was frying 
 crullers for the minister's tea. But she did not 
 think of her own lot as being harder than Mi-s. 
 Morris' — far from it. 
 
 " Poor Jane, trapesing along with a strange 
 girl, and me got four daughters," she said to 
 herself, and dropped a bit of potato into the 
 bubbling fat to see if it was at the proper 
 temperature. 
 
 Perhaps Mrs. Green's daughters as well as! 
 
 ¥ m 
 
JUDITH MOcmE. 
 
 133 
 
 their " ways " were rocks of offence to Mrs. 
 Morris, yet they were truly a poor possession to 
 covet 
 
 A short walk, an<l then Judith ami Mrs. 
 Morris were at the foot of the hill-side. They 
 entered Andrew's domain ; and found, as they 
 closed the gate, that Miss Myers and Andrew 
 had come to meet them. 
 
 Andrew had longed intensely during the four 
 days just gone to see Judith again. So extra va- 
 <,'ant had his desire for this been, that when he 
 saw her coming afar off, he felt almost a regret. 
 The anticipation had been so satisfying that he 
 felt a stifled fear, lest the vision be found to 
 surpass the real. But when she gave him her 
 liand, and looked at him, straight from her 
 honest eyes into his — well, then he knew no 
 dream could be so dear as the sweet realit}'. 
 And from that moment the \vorld put on a 
 different countenance to those two — the sky, the 
 water, the clouds, and the earth^s bloom-scented 
 fjxce all changed, 
 
 As they turned to follow Miss Myers and Mrs. 
 Morris they were a little silent. A quieting 
 hand seemed to have been laid in benediction 
 I upon their hasty pulses. An awe, not of each 
 other, but of the holy realm they felt they were 
 |entering, fell upon them. From the portals of 
 
 ' »i 
 
i*m 
 
 |i 
 
 134 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 that ProHiiscfl Laiul ihore Hecuied to issue a 
 f^entle but cc)mp(;lling voice, bidding theiu tread 
 gently, for the place whereon they stood Mas 
 holy ground. In Andrew's heart there surj^ed a 
 new Htreiigth, a strong tide of resolution. In 
 Judith's heart there sprang to life many swoet 
 hopes, savoured and sanctified almost to pain, by 
 a new sweet fear. 
 
 Their voices softened. Andrew's tones seemed 
 informed with a new meaning. Jurlith's accents 
 held a hint of appeal. 
 
 But this transfonnation was unacknowlcflfjjed 
 by each of them. Judith's eyes still met liis 
 bravely, and he constrained himself to self- 
 control. But what a glorified place that linden- 
 laden hill-side had become ! 
 
 Judith laughed out happily. 
 
 "I am happy!" she said, out of sheer light- 
 heartedness. " Are you ? " 
 
 Andrew drew his breath in swiftly, and closed 
 his lips firmly a moment, as to repress some 
 words that strove for utterance. 
 
 " Yes, I should think I am," he said. 
 
 They passed under the apple-tree by the garden 
 gate. Its petals seemed almost spent— the life j 
 of the apple blossom is short. But how much i 
 sweeter the spot, and the tree, when she stood 
 beneath it, than ever it had been before in all 
 
.TrniTir mooiik. 
 
 1.^5 
 
 its K^'^^y *^"^^ bloom ! They were in the garden ; 
 the oUl sun dial with the linden tree 'oeaide it 
 stood in the sunwhine. Judith's eyes filled with 
 happy toars, which Andrew did not see ; lie 
 only thouj^ht her eyes were blight It seemed 
 to lier that her spirit had foun<l its natal place 
 here on the hill. These aromatic breaths from t^ie 
 box. the perfume of the violets, the odour of the 
 cheny blossom, the sound of the birds, the rustle 
 of the leaves — surely these were the scents and 
 sounds of home. • 
 
 " Do you know what Mi*s. Browning Siiys of 
 such a tree ? " she asked. 
 
 "No: tell me." 
 
 " I do not know if I can remember it. I'll 
 try. I — " (She was nervous — she who had 
 sung to the Kaiser!) Then she repeated, her 
 voice trembling a little — 
 
 
 " Here a linden tree stood, bright'ning 
 
 All adown its silver rind ; 
 For as some trees dmw the lightning, 
 
 So this tree, unto my mind. 
 Drew to earth the blessdd sunshine 
 
 From the sky where it was shrined." 
 
 " I think it is you who have drawn down the 
 jsunshine," he said. '* Anyhow, it is always sun- 
 Isliine where you are."' 
 
](f^ 
 
 136 
 
 JUDITH MOOKE. 
 
 nlHfinii 
 
 She was amazed at the joy which flooded her 
 heart at this commonplace compliment. They 
 loitered about the garden until Miss Myei-s 
 summoned them to tea. Judith came in almost 
 shyly before these two country women, wlio, to 
 tell the truth, had felt the freei* to enjoy them- 
 selves in her absence. 
 
 Miss Myers took her into a bedroom to lay ott' 
 her hat. It was cool, quiet, large, with cornel's 
 already growing dusky in the fading ligiit. A 
 huge bed heaped liigh with feathers was covered 
 with a snowy coverlet. Some tall geraniums 
 with fragrant, forn-like leaves stood in the 
 windows ; a dark, polished table filled one angle. 
 The mirror, a little square of dim glass, was set 
 in a polished mahogany frame, and placed upon 
 a high chest of drawers of the same rich dusky 
 wood. 
 
 There was something pure, still, almost ascetic, 
 in the large bare room. Its spotlessness seemed 
 to diffuse a sense of restful peace. One would 
 have said no weary eyes had ever held vain 
 vigil here, that no restless heart had here 
 sought slumber without finding it. 
 
 Judith someliow felt like \o vering her voice, 
 She took off* her hat and patted her hair 
 solicitously as every normal woman <loes. Sin 
 could only see her face in the mirror, nothing 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 137 
 
 more, not even the purple and yellow pansies in 
 the breast of her yellow frock. She touched 
 thfcm fjently. Andrew had picked them for her 
 in the garden. 
 
 " Am I right ? " she asked, looking at Miss 
 Myers. 
 
 "Couldn't be improved," said Miss Myers, 
 heartily, upon whom Judith's interest in the 
 garden and evident desire to please had made 
 quite an impression in the last few minutes. 
 
 So they went back to the sitting-room to- 
 gether, whan Miss Myers excused herself for a 
 few minutes whilst she went to give the finish- 
 ing touches to her table — to see that the girl 
 hud set it properly, get out the best china and 
 the silver teapot, the richest fru't-cake, the finest 
 canned peaches, and fill the cream ewer with 
 the thickest of cream. 
 
 Andrew was leaning against a window case- 
 ment as Judith entered the room. The broad 
 I window-sills were full of flowers ; the heavy old 
 [red curtains were pushed far back to the sills, 
 making a dusky background for Andrew's tall 
 figure in its rusty velveteens. Judith advanced 
 [toward him, h(jr yellow frock looking almost 
 ?hite in the waning light, the purple heartsease 
 
 dark blot upon her breast. 
 
 " Isn't that plant pretty ? " she asked Mrs. 
 10 
 
 m 
 
138 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 Morris, feeling a nervous desire to include her 
 in the conversation — she felt so much alone with 
 Andrew. 
 
 " Which ? " asked Mrs. Morris, joining them at 
 the window. " The * Aaron's Beard * or the 
 •Jacob's Ladder' ?" 
 
 " I mean this hanging plant," said Juditli. 
 
 " Oh, the * Mother of Millions ' ; yes, it's real 
 handsome," said Mrs Morris, looking at the 
 luxuriant pot of KeniJvvo .L Ivy over which 
 Judith was bending. 
 
 " What a funny name ! " said Judith. 
 
 " Oh, it don't make much difference about the 
 names of 'em," returned Mrs. Morris. " Only so 
 long as you know 'em by *em." 
 
 Miss Myers entered, and they followed her to 
 the dining-room. 
 
 Miss Myers was reputedly the most forehanded 
 house-keeper in Ovid, and support d to set the 
 best table of anyone in the vi !*.>', "and do 
 thanks to her for it; she's got p*r oy to tlo 
 with " — ^as her neighbours often said. But in 
 spite of her liberal house-keeping. Miss Mym 
 "looked well to the ways of her household"; 
 there were no small channels of waste permitted 
 under her regime. 
 
 Judith was charmed with everything— the | 
 chicken and ham, which Andrew deftly dis 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 139 
 
 pensed; the huge glass dish of peaches, pre- 
 served whole, and with a few long green peach- 
 leaves put with them to flavour them; the 
 snowy white cream -cheese set on a bed of 
 parsley ; the young lettuce fresh gathered from 
 the garden (of which Mrs. Morris said later, " It 
 wtis just murdering them lettuce to pick 'em so 
 young"); the black fruit cake; and the bread 
 browned in Miss Myers' brick oven. 
 
 A cat sprang upon the sill of the open window, 
 and after some pretence of surprise (at which 
 Andrew raised his eyebrows and looked at 
 Judith), Miss Myei's gave it a saucer of milk on 
 the window-ledge. Strangely enough there 
 happened to be an extra saucer handy. Judith 
 sat demurely, feeling that there never had been 
 such a joke as she and Andrew perceived in 
 Miss Myers' poor pretence of astonishment at 
 the cat's daring. The cat finished her milk, and 
 sat washing her face industriously. 
 
 Rufus sat sedately beside his master's chair, 
 
 with a look almast of sanctity in his big hazel 
 
 eyes. Rufus never begged, but he shifted his 
 
 forepaws uneasily and swept his banner of a 
 
 tail along the floor, mutely impoiiiunate. Later 
 
 Jon Judith learned this was the regular per- 
 
 [formance of these two favourites. There were 
 
 [other dogs about the place, and barn cats in 
 
140 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 ,1, ! 
 
 t 
 
 plenty, but these two chosen ones had the high 
 seats in the synagogue. 
 
 There were antlers between the windows, and 
 over the side table, and above the doors; a 
 trophy of wild ducks and water fowl was 
 mounted upon a beautiful hard- wood panel; 
 foxes' masks grinned from the comers. And 
 when they passed out to the hall, theie was the 
 old musket, the sword with its crimson sash, a 
 pair of rusty spurs and a cartridge belt, all 
 hung upon the huge horns of the one moose 
 which Andrew's gun had brought down. 
 
 An incident at the table had disturbed Judith 
 very much. In response to a request for salt, 
 she had handed Andrew some, and Mrs. Morris 
 promptly said : 
 
 " Well, you shouldn't have done that. That's 
 a bad oming. * Help one to salt, help them to 
 sorrow.' That's terrible unlucky." 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Cutler," said Judith, " do you think 
 I've given you sorrow ? " 
 
 "No," said Andrew. "No, indeed; I don't | 
 believe any of those old sayings." Miss Myers j 
 was silent. 
 
 "Well," said Mrs. Morris, "I don't know;! 
 them things seems bore out sometimes. There 
 was young Henry Braddon; he keeps post-oiEce 
 now " (this to Judith) " and one day his mother 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 141 
 
 gave him some salt to salt the cattle. ' Help 
 one to salt, help one to sorrow/ says he, and off 
 he went, and when he come back his mother lay 
 in the porch, took with the stroke she died of." 
 
 Judith's face was pale and startled. 
 
 " Seems to me," said Andrew, dryly, feeling as 
 if he would like to choke Mrs. Morris — " seems 
 to me the brunt of that bad luck fell on her." 
 
 " I wish I'd never seen salt," said Judith. " Do 
 you think any bad luck will come of it ? " 
 
 "Nonsense," said Andrew, and somehow his 
 manlike scorn did much to reassure Judith, but 
 when the others were not looking, she pushed 
 the oft'ending salt as far as possible from her. 
 
 Mr. Morris was to call for them, and he 
 arrived very soon, but in the meantime the 
 evening had grown a little chill, and Judith h&d 
 no wrap. She denied feeling cold, but as they 
 stood in the porch she shivered. Andrew ran 
 in and brought out a huge homespun shawl and 
 bundled her up in it ; her face, in contrast to its 
 heavy rough folds, looked very delicate and 
 Iwhite. 
 
 She was seated alone in the second seat of the 
 [democrat waggon. Andrew came to her side ; 
 [his eyes were nearly on a level with hers. 
 
 " You never showed me the birds' nests ! " she 
 
 lid. 
 
142 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 " Oh, you must come back and see those," he 
 said eagerly. " You will come back ? " 
 
 "As often as Miss Myers will let me," said 
 Judith, unaftectedly. " And " — she coloured a 
 little — "you'll come and see my bird's nest in 
 the field ? " 
 
 •* Yes, to-morrow," said Andrew. 
 
 Mr. Morris shook the reins over the old sorrel. 
 Judith bent over giving Andrew her hand. 
 
 "Mr. Cutler," she said hastily, "you dout 
 think I gave you sorrow ? " 
 
 " No," he said, some deep feeling makinfr his 
 voice intense in its quiet strength. " No, you 
 give me — " The old sorrel was eager to get back 
 to her slim-fetlocked daughter, and she spranj; 
 forward. Judith's hand seemed torn from hiin; 
 his sentence was left incomplete. 
 
 " Good-night," he said. 
 
 " Good-night, good-night," called Judith in 
 return. 
 
 M 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 "Yet love, mere love, is beautiful indeed, 
 And worthy of acceptation. " 
 
 Next day the village was stirred to its depths 
 when Hiram Green passed through the streets, 
 bringikg from his pasture his white horse, 
 striped with purple paint, or dye, until it looked 
 like an exotic zebra. 
 
 With this horae he brought his gi'oceries from 
 town ; behind it many a school-teacher had 
 driven in vainglorious ease. Hiram had gone 
 for it that day with intent to do the little 
 L.ethodist parson honour, by taking him for a 
 drive, a plan necessarily postponed by the 
 hilarious appearance of the horse, which looked 
 out from a pair of artistically drawn purple 
 spectacles upon the excitement which its ap- 
 pearance created. 
 
 Hiram was furious, the Misses Green were 
 rampant, the parson piously indignant, and even 
 meek Mrs. Green lifted up her voice in wrath 
 
 The horse was escorted to the barn-yard, to be 
 subjected to such a course of scrubbing as never 
 
144 
 
 JtTDlTH MOOllfi. 
 
 fell to the lot of an Ovidian horse before ; but 
 aniline dyes are hard to eradicate. That day, 
 and for many days after, the horse went about 
 contentedly in a pale purple coat. 
 
 There was no direct evidence to convict any 
 one of the prank; but Hiram had refused to 
 give the Slick family any further credit at his 
 store, and from the clothes-line of the Slick 
 house, some garments, dipped in purple dye, 
 flaunted derisively in the breeze. Tommy Slick 
 and Nip went about looking as if butter wouldn't 
 melt in their mouths; and all Mrs. Slick was 
 ever heard to say about the matter was : 
 
 " Let 'em come to me and just as much as hint 
 that Tommy done it ! I'll — but just let 'era 
 once, that's all." 
 
 And whilst nobody showed a disposition to 
 hinder any one else from making the accusation, 
 still no one volunteered to voice the general 
 opinion regarding the matter to Mrs. Slick. 
 Besides, secretly, every one felt a sort of sneaking 
 satisfaction over the matter. 
 
 Andrew and Judith, to confess the truth, 
 thought it a huge joke, and at Judith's instiga- 
 tion, they made a long journey across the fields 
 to Hiram's pasture lot, to see the horse; and 
 when they beheld him placidly purple, munching 
 away in supreme content, they laughed till their 
 voices rang out through the wood. 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 145 
 
 Judith recalled the purple smears on Tommy's 
 pail the day she had met him, and felt an 
 unholy joy of participation in the plot. Judith 
 didn't like the Greens. As she and Mrs. Morris 
 passed them going to Andrew's, one sentence 
 had rung out clearly to Judith's ears: "My! 
 Ain't she pinched ! " That was enough. The 
 Greens never found favour in the eyes of 
 Judith. 
 
 Andrew, as he had promised to do, went to 
 see Judith's bird's nest the day after her visit to 
 his farm. At that meeting, and in many more 
 such sweet hours which followed, Judith and 
 Andrew lived in the joy of the moment. Their 
 hearts were young, the world was fre i and 
 fair ; the one loved deeply, and the other — well 
 —for the time she had forgotten her ambition, 
 forgotten the marvellous gift that made holy 
 the air she breathed, or only remembered it for 
 the pleasure it gave this young countryman; 
 she had forgotten that her name was famous, 
 whispered from lip to lip throughout the musical 
 world; she had forgotten the intoxication of 
 iBuccess, the wine of applause ; she had forgotten 
 [the great debt she owed the man who had made 
 ler what she was, a debt that she could only 
 requite in one way, by singing. So surely she 
 lust have sipped some Nepenthe of present 
 
,i 
 
 146 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 happiness or future hope ! LiOtos lands are verv 
 sweet, but rarely so satisfying as these two 
 found them. 
 
 It seems to outrage our sense of proportion, 
 to think of a young farmer aspiring to the hand 
 of one who showed every promise of being the 
 world's prima donna. To us it seems grotesque 
 almost, and Andrew seems ridiculously egotis- 
 tical in hoping that this song-bird would abide 
 in his love- woven cage of rushes, when the doore 
 of so many golden nets were open to her But 
 Andrew's daring was perhaps excusable. 
 
 It is true, her voice had led him to her first, 
 and he always heard it as a devotee might hear 
 the voices of angels strike through his prayers; 
 but after that first meeting, Andrew had always 
 . seen the woman in her, not the songstress. He 
 did not love her for her singing, her beauty, nor 
 her gentle breeding. He loved her for herself- 
 the truest love of all. For a love founded upon 
 any gift is a frail thing, a banner hung upon 
 reed. The reed may break, and the banner no I 
 longer lifted up may not. care to enwrap the 
 broken stem which before upheld it. What does| 
 England's greatest woman poet say ? 
 
 "If thou must love me, let it be for naught 
 Except for love's sake only. " 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 147 
 
 "For love's sake only "—that should be the 
 supreme reason of every passion. Love, "the 
 fulfilling of the law," the beginning and end of 
 all things. 
 
 And thus, inasmuch as this great justification 
 was his, Andrew was justified. 
 
 Nor did he seek with rude hands to snatch 
 his happiness hastily. As one pauses with 
 hushed heart, when he conies in woodland 
 places upon some new sweet flower, or sees 
 through a cleft of the mountains the glory of 
 the sun, or gathers to his breast some soul- 
 satisfying truth, so Andrew paused ere raising 
 tlie cup of this great joy to his lips. He felt 
 he must purify his hands ere he advanced to 
 stretch them forth for the draught. And should 
 it be denied him ? 
 
 Thought ceased there — beyond was chaos. 
 
 And Judith gathered the flowers of the hour 
 with eager fingei"s, trembling with new joy, 
 finding in their perfume complete satisfaction, 
 looking neither before nor after, as a butterfly 
 revels in the sunshine, forgetting the chill of 
 by-gone days, unrecking of the bitter blasts to 
 come. 
 
 The days became weeks, and the earth grew 
 glad with fruits and flowers and growing grain, 
 puring all this time Judith was learning of the 
 
148 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 '"I 
 
 people about her, prying with her tender eyes 
 into the pathos of their narrow lives, appre- 
 ciating keenly the unconscious humour dis- 
 played in their processes of thought, niarvellinj; 
 at their stolid disregard of the Beautiful. 
 
 Rufus and the grey cat knew her well, and 
 Miss Myers was devoted to her. 
 
 Mrs. Morris and Miss Myers had grounded 
 her thoroughly in the family history of the 
 villagers, and she knew as much about them tif, 
 about the others, for Miss Myers told her alK3ut 
 Mrs. Morris, and vice versa. 
 
 And Judith had d< 'oped a keen interest in 
 all the doings of the village people, of whom 
 old Sam Symmons was her favourite, the re- 
 doubtable Tommy Slick being a good second, 
 Old Sam liked her, and prophesied freely that 
 she would soon be mistress of Andrew Cutler's 
 house. Suse pretended not to be much im- 
 pressed with Judith ; it was not to be expected 
 that any marriageable girl in the neighbour- 
 hood would particularly admire the strange 
 woman who had led away captive the most 
 eligible n^an for miles around, and, besides, 
 Suse had a love affair of her own upon lier 
 hands. The rest of the village girls contented 
 themselves with giggling when Andrew and 
 Judith passed, whispering among themselves 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 U9 
 
 that "There didn't seem to be much sign of 
 Miss Myers moving out, and if slie was going 
 to live with Andrew and his wife, it was as well 
 he hadn't chosen any of thsm, for they wouldn't 
 stand that " — reflections which consoled them 
 very much evidently, and which, being entirely 
 haniiless to any one else, were quite admissible. 
 
 Judith thought this rustic life very (]uaint 
 and idyllic to look at — like one of Hardy's 
 stories, only bearing the same relation to a 
 story that a game of chess, played as they play it 
 sometimes in the ast, with living pawns, does 
 to the more prostiic pastime pondered over upon 
 a table. 
 
 The village appealed to her as a skilfully set 
 scene, begirt by a beautiful background of 
 changing fields and sky— a stage whereon was 
 enacted an interminable drama, in whose scenes 
 all the constituents of humble life were blended. 
 
 It never occurred to her that she was the 
 heroine of the story — the queen of the animated 
 ! chess board, an actress in the life play. Poor 
 [Judith! She thought herself only a spectator, 
 and, as such, deemed herself secure from all the 
 [pains and penalties of the play. 
 
 Judith always laughed, though sometimes 
 
 [for shame she strove to hide the laughter when 
 
 Pommy Slick was before the footlights. Tommy 
 
 4f 
 

 150 
 
 JUDITH MOOR5. 
 
 ■'-1 
 
 had been making a hilarious record for himself 
 at school. To begin with, Tommy was nearly 
 ten years old, and bad been allowed to run 
 wild at home, hence he was utterly ignorant 
 of the world of letters, but wide awake to the 
 vital facts in the world of men ; for Tommy's 
 intellect was precocious and practical. 
 
 Tommy's father was wont to say of this, his 
 youngest hope, " Tommy hain't much of a letter 
 sharp, but he'd be good on a horse trade," and 
 his judgment was about correct. His mother, 
 as a preliminary to Tommy's appearance, called 
 upon Suse, and informed her that " Tommy was 
 a right smart young un, but delikit." Of the 
 first fact Suse was well awure ; of the truth of 
 the latter statement she never could convince 
 herself. Did she not, in common with the rest 
 of the village, remember well the day when 
 Tommy and his father furnished forth enter- 
 tainment for the whole community ? The 
 fashion of it did not suggest any extreme de- 
 bility upon Tommy's part. It was in this wise: 
 
 One dajT" Tommy, having incited his irascible I 
 father even more than usual, perceived blool 
 in his parent's eye, and concluded to run. The 
 chase led up the village street, to the vacant | 
 lot where the old store had been burned down. 
 The fleet and flying Tommy, turning here, hi 
 
 iv" 
 
 it 
 'I 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 161 
 
 perceived his father in full pursuit, and, evi- 
 dently doubting his own staying powers, had 
 taken to a tree, shinning up a tall, slender, 
 swaying poplar with precocious celerity. He 
 climljed to the very top, and, undaunted by the 
 slenderness of his perch (for the tree bent be- 
 neath his weight as a stalk of grain beneath a 
 bird), clung comfortably there, whilst his father, 
 unable to follow up the slender stem, stood at 
 the foot, and alternately threatened, cajoled 
 and cursed. When he resorted to swearing as a 
 safety valve for his wrath, Tommy exchanged 
 oaths genially and freely with him, until Slick, 
 Sen., in a paroxysm of rage, shook the tree 
 continuously and violently, so that Tommy took 
 an earthward flight, fortunately for him landing 
 on a pile of old straw. 
 
 His father, somewhat cooled down by the 
 
 [spectacle of Tommy shooting through the air, 
 
 i approached him, and as a preliminary, asked Jiim 
 
 if he was hurt. This gave Tommy an opportunity 
 
 pvliich he at once improved. He made no reply. 
 
 And thereupon Suse and the rest of the 
 [0 vidians were regaled by seeing Tommy's fatlier 
 parrying his son home tenderly, stepping care- 
 fully so as not to jar the presumably broken 
 
 mes- 
 
 This progress Tommy rendered as arduous as 
 

 152 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 possible, by lying perfectly limp in his father's 
 arms ; in fact, making himself dead weight, and 
 letting his long legs dangle helplessly down, to 
 meet his father's knee-caps, or shins, at every 
 step, with the brass toes of his heavy boots. It 
 was not reported that Tommy suffered much 
 from this experience. 
 
 Tommy had a fine fund of profanity, which 
 served as a spicy garnish to his deep sense of 
 humour, a genial and easy self-possession, un- 
 failing confidence in his own powers, and a dog 
 he was willing to back against any other in the 
 village, except Hiram Green's brindle bull pup. 
 
 The first day Tommy went to school, Suse had 
 the " infant " class up before one of the alphabet 
 tablets by the window, and Tommy, affable and 
 completely at ease, came with them. Mosi 
 children — Ovidian children — when they came to 
 school for the first time, were somewhat abashed 
 by the novelty of their surroundings, given to 
 starting at every sound, stumbling over the leg8 
 of dbtjks, and getting hopelessly entangled with 
 the other pupils, in their efforts to obliterate 
 themselves from the teacher's notice. Not so, 
 Tommy. No teacher ever born had terrors for I 
 him ; the legs outstretched to trip him on his 
 way up the aisle, were withdrawn, tingling from | 
 the kicks of Tommy's brass toes, When he wa 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 153 
 
 half-way up the aisle, it occun*ed to him to take 
 a short-cut, so he wriggled between two desks, 
 and landed with a slide over the third, to find 
 most ot the class assembled. A sharp pinch of 
 an arm, his elbow applied vigorously to a side, 
 a vicious kick upon a shin, cleared his way of 
 three boys. Then he planted himself at the 
 head of the class, next Suse, and prepared to 
 receive the seeds of knowledge. 
 
 But his eyes wandered, first with a look all 
 about, then abstractedly to the window. But 
 the abstraction vanished, and a look of intense 
 eagerness made his eyes bright, as they bent in 
 absorbed interest upon one spot, where his dis- 
 reputable dog, who had followed him to school, 
 a la Mary's sheep, was harassing the life out of 
 a fat and grunting pig, which he had, in his own 
 proper person, surrounded ; for, heading off" the 
 pig in whatever direction she turned, he seem- 
 ingly converted himself into twenty disreputable 
 (logs. Having bewildered the pig with a few 
 lightning rushes round it, with a sharp nip at 
 : its tail, ears, or nose, as he could best get in a 
 [flying bite, he planted himself like a lion in the 
 way, and yelped red-mouthed derision and insult 
 [at the impotent foe, who was too fat to follow, 
 [either mentally or bodily, the gyrations of its 
 igile tormentor. 
 11 
 
 
154 
 
 JUDITH MOOKE. 
 
 Tm 
 
 m 
 
 " Tommy ! " said Suse. (Tommy paid no heed.) 
 " Tommy!" repeated she, more imperatively. (No 
 sign from Tommy.) " Tommy Slick ! ! " accentu- 
 ating her voice by a sharp rap of her pointer on 
 a desk. Just then the owner of the pig came 
 along, kicked Nip, and Tommy came back to 
 sublunary aiFairs. 
 
 " All right, Suse," he said obligingly, " I'm yer 
 man." 
 
 At that Suse felt the foundations of her 
 throne tottering. 
 
 In the afternoon, mindful of the temptations 
 of the window, she had Tommy's class up before 
 the blackboard, where, printing the alphabet a 
 letter at a time, she made the class name them, 
 Tommy kept his attention pretty closely fixed 
 until N was reached ; then he became absent- 
 minded. He was meditating his revenge upon 
 the pig's owner for kicking Nip. The only step 
 he had decided upon was to try conclusions, 
 immediately after school, with the man's son. 
 The latter was two years older than Tommy, 
 and a good half-head taller, but Tommy never 
 considered such paltry details when an affront 
 to Nip was to be wiped out. 
 
 Tommy's mind was engrossed with further 
 plans when Suse, after elaborately executing a 
 capital S upon the blackboard, addressed him, 
 not without some trepidation. 
 
 ii 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 155 
 
 " Tommy, that's S." (No response.) 
 
 " Tommy," she said with angry dignity, " you 
 must look at the blackboard. That letter is S." 
 
 " Oh, is it ? " said Tommy, in a pleasantly in- 
 terested tone, "I always did wonder what the 
 little crooked devil was," For the remainder of 
 Tommy's first day at school Suse felt that her 
 glory was a delusion and a snare. 
 
 Judith carefully concealed from Mrs. Morris 
 her enjoyment of Tommy's pranks, the former 
 having no patience witli " them two imps," as 
 she designated Tommy and Nip. For, once, 
 Mrs. Morris had been expecting company, and 
 the better to entertain them, had baked a batch 
 of pumpkin pies, it being the seafjon when such 
 delicacies were in order. She sec them out on a 
 bench in the front porch to cool, taking the 
 precaution to make sure that the collie and the 
 cat were safe in the kitchen. 
 
 When Mrs. Morris returned, some half- hour 
 
 later, she found a row of empty pie plates, and 
 
 sitting beside them, looking at them with the 
 
 dissatisfied expression of a dog still hungry, 
 
 was Tommy Slick's dog Nip. Nip fled from 
 
 [the face of Mrs. Morris towards Andrew's 
 
 woods, where Tommy was gathering hickory 
 
 (nuts, sped upon his way by an earthen flower 
 
 [pot flung with a vigorous but inaccurate hand. 
 

 156 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 ■r„ 
 
 i I 
 
 Ever since that day Mrs. Morris had cherished a 
 deep hatred of Tommy and his dog. 
 
 Judith, as the days passed, was very happy; 
 but happy in a blind, unreasoning fashion. 
 With persistent self-delusion she put behind 
 her the fact that this dream-like summer was 
 but an interlude in her life. True, at first 
 she persistently took short views, and only 
 interested herself in matters a day or two 
 beyond the present, but gradually she slipped 
 into the habit of speaking and thinking as if 
 she were to be there always. 
 
 Now and then there were times when the 
 colder light of reason showed her plainly how 
 factitious this evanescent happiness was. These 
 moods came upon her like so many physical 
 shocks, leaving her feeling much older, much 
 quieter, robbing her life of radiance and giving 
 her almost a distaste for the simple scenes which 
 had created delusions v/hich bade fair to cost 
 her so dear. Sometimes when the clear radiance 
 of the moon shone in upon her at night, she lay 
 and thought of the brilliant scenes, the well- 
 nigh certain triumphs which awaited her — for, 
 immature as she might be in some things, she I 
 was mistress of her art and knew it, but her 
 cheeks no longer flushed as they had wont to| 
 do, her eyes no longer kindled at the dieaiii 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 157 
 
 instead, lier face set into a cold dignity and her 
 eyes looked out in the moonlight, out into the 
 future with a look of prescient martyrdom — the 
 martyrdom of lonely Genius! The look of 
 those whose brows smooth themselves for the 
 crown of solitary success, that coronal which 
 has so often crushed its wearer, so often obscured 
 the eyes it ovei-shadowed, so that they no longer 
 beheld peace and joy ! 
 
 But at the first sound of Andrew's footsteps, 
 always eager, hasty, hopeful as they approached 
 her, these shadows vanished, and in their place 
 shone the dawn of a newer light. 
 
 She had never before been considered as a 
 woman, but always as a singer ; and her woman- 
 hood recognizing the tribute paid to it, stirred 
 into life, responded to the feeling which evoked 
 it, and demanded right of way. 
 
 There is something dominant in the woman- 
 heart when roused. Judith's nature held deeper 
 depths than she herself wot of — sweet springs 
 for the lilies of love to grow in ; reservoira of 
 feeling, long unsuspected, but now brimming to 
 the brink, threatening to break every barrier, 
 and flood their way over the ruin of her life 
 schemes, her painfully constructed temple of 
 Art, the airy fabric of her ambition; but one 
 .obstacle could not be swept aside — the benefits 
 
158 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 received. When Judith thought of what she 
 owed her manager, then her heart grew faint 
 within hei' ; but, as excessive pain at length 
 numbs sen^^tion, so this thought became one of 
 the accepted facts of her life, the life she was 
 enjoying so much. 
 
 And the days were so long, and so sweet, that 
 it seemed impossible that the end would ever 
 come. But it was already midsummer, the 
 harvest fields were brightening beneath the 
 sun, the little school-house was closed for the 
 summer holidays ; from the orchards came the 
 odour of ripe harvest apples, and the sun- 
 bonneted women gathered wild raspberries from 
 the fences, or picked currants in the garden. 
 
 And Judith had herself grown infinitely 
 charming; for she was not letting all the 
 sunshine slip from her. As the ruby crystal 
 holds the rays which gives it its roseate charni, 
 so Judith was absorbing the beauties about her, 
 and giving them forth in a gentle radiation of | 
 womanly graces. 
 
 When one part of a nature is nurtured to the I 
 exclusion of the rest, it is not strange that the 
 whole suffers somewhat. Judith, taught only| 
 to sing, to look well, to win applause by merit, 
 or clever finesse, had known perhaps too little of I 
 real womanliness, save the intuitional imi 
 
 l:..;i 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 159 
 
 of her strong, sweet nature. She was wont to 
 be a Httle petulant, a little self-absorbed, and a 
 little, just a little, arrogant. These blemishes 
 had been chastened into a sweet womanliness, 
 capricious perhaps, but charming. Not but what 
 there were tempests in her summer. As the 
 summer showers swept across the fields, so 
 tears crossed her happy dream. 
 
 The interest she took in every detail of 
 his daily occupation amused and touched 
 Andrew very much, but now and then he, in a 
 measure, misunderstood her, which was not 
 wonderful, considering how widely severed their 
 modes of life and methods of thought had been. 
 Once he laughed at some views she was 
 expressing, grave conclusions she had arrived 
 at after long thought and minute observation. 
 Andrew laughed outright. Her remarks related 
 to one of the simplest facts of outdoor life, 
 always so well known to Andrew that he hardly 
 apprehended the marvel of it. At his laugh the 
 colour flooded her face, tears sprang to her 
 eyes, she was wounded to the quick. She tried 
 to disguise her feelings as bravely as possible, 
 fighting off a burst of hysteric tears, making 
 commonplace remarks in a tone strained and 
 muffled by reason of the lump in her throat. 
 Andrew's heart ached with regret. He wanted 
 
100 
 
 JUDITH MOORfi. 
 
 i '■'/ 
 
 M 
 ■li; 1 
 
 s- i 
 
 to lake her in his arms, and liolding her to his 
 breast win from her a silent pardon, offer her a 
 mute but eloquent apology. He dare not yet. 
 A quick sense of her childishness in some 
 matters came t'^ ' *m n ^ nowledge that if ever 
 lie won her, he must be prepared to be patient, 
 prepared to learn much, to teach her many 
 things. Judith saw that he had noticed her 
 distress, knew he was soiTy, and tried in an 
 unselfish woman's way, to make him think that 
 she had no<< minded. The very tenderness which 
 Andrew's voice and manner assumed, pressed 
 home the sting of that laugh. As they parted 
 that night, the teare were heavy beneath Judith's 
 lids. For a fleeting moment as they said good- 
 night, she looked at him. She was standing 
 within the shadow of the porch, but the star- 
 shine revealed those tears. 
 
 " My poor little girl, I'm so sorry," said 
 Andrew, his dark face pale in the dusk. 
 
 " It doesn't matter, really. I think my head 
 aches — I mean — ^good night," she said. 
 
 " You are not angry ? " Andrew's voice was 
 chill with despair, regret. 
 
 " No, no — oh, I'm not angry, not a bit, I- 
 He caught her hands, her composure was failing | 
 her. 
 
 " Oh, do let me go," she half whispered, "y( 
 
 iii 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 161 
 
 are bad to me." Then she fled. Andrew turned 
 away, white to the lips. 
 
 When they met again, the joy of seeing each 
 other made them happy. Judith was so lovingly 
 eager to make him forg<it her last words to him, 
 he was so tenderly anxious not to wound her, 
 and each was a little in awe of the other. For 
 they had learned one of the most sacred lessons 
 of love, learned what a terrible power to inflict 
 suffering each held over the other. But their 
 love was sanctified by this dual illumination, 
 and as their eyes met, a little shyly, now and 
 then, there seemed to pass between them a two- 
 fold message, a promise and a plea. 
 
 And they parted again, with definite words of 
 love still unspoken. 
 
 But the time was not far oft*. Andrew's arms 
 were yearning for their birthright, and Judith's 
 head was weary for his breast. 
 
 Yet fears assailed her, too. One's head may 
 
 I be sore aweary for the pillow, yet the thought 
 
 of frightsf>me dreams may make one tremble 
 
 on the verge of rest, and hesitate ere yielding 
 
 [to the sweetest slumber. 
 
iidiniirj'a . mi j 
 
 ■ - -^-iiiii;,,,! ' M 
 
 t ilHlH 
 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 ' ' Ho, ye who seek saving, 
 Go no further. Come hither, for have we not found it! 
 Here is the House of Fulfilment of Craving ; 
 Here is the Cup with the roses around it. 
 The world's wound well healed, and the balm that 
 hath bound it." 
 
 "I'm going to church next Sunday," 
 Judith to Andrew, as they walked through the 
 chestnut woods. It was evening. Far away 
 beyond the level fields an after-glow opulent in 
 gold was streaming up over the sky — a radiance, 
 living, like the memory of love, long after its 
 source had vanished from the view. The dav 
 
 • 
 
 had been intensely warm, and the wood was full 
 of the pungent odours of leaves, mingled with 
 the sweeter scent of dying wild roses. 
 
 Coming to them faintly from far-off fields 
 they could hear the lowing of thirsty cows, 
 eager to be let out of their pastures to tbej 
 ponds. And from the grass meadow whiclj 
 bordered the chestnut woods came the cronj 
 cropping of Andrew's horses grazing greedi 
 now that the heat of the day had declined. 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 163 
 
 Judith wore a white frock, and had a bunch 
 of somewhat limp-looking ferns in her hand. It 
 was impossible for her to leave the woo<Is with- 
 out some spoil. Andrew walked by her side, 
 tall and brown, his cap pushed far back upon 
 his head, a measureless content within his eyes. 
 Rufus followed sedately, keeping a wary look- 
 out from the corner of his eye for squirrels and 
 rabbits. 
 
 Sleepy, white-winged moths were fluttering 
 aimlessly hither and thither amid the grasses, 
 and now and then a bird's call rang through the 
 trees. 
 
 " Going to church ? " said Andrew. " Isn't 
 that a new idea ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Judith, a little wistfully. " Mrs. 
 Morris wants me to, and — I wish I was good." 
 
 Andrew's face was very tender as he turned 
 towards her. "I don't think you are such a 
 great sinner." 
 
 She looked at him half happily, half doubt- 
 fully. " Well, I'm going anyhow ; Mrs. Morris 
 seems so anxious about it." 
 
 •• I'll go, too, then." 
 
 "Oh, will you?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 They walked on a few moments in silence; 
 ^then Andrew said : 
 
164 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 " Will you sing in church ? " i; i? 
 
 " Oh," said Judith, " they'll have sin^injr ' I 
 hadn't thought of it. Yes, I'll sing with the 
 rest." V a 
 
 Andrew chuckled. v 
 
 " What is it ^ " demanded Miss Moore, drawinc 
 her level brows together in interrogation. 
 
 " Oh, nothing," said Andrew. 
 
 "Yes, it is something." 
 
 " No, really." 
 
 " You were laughing at me." 
 
 " No, honestly, I wasn't." 
 
 " Certain ? " Miss Moore looked at him sus- 
 piciously. 
 
 '* Come and look at the horses," said Andrew, 
 
 So they crossed from the path, through the 
 narrow belt of trees to the pasture fence, and 
 presently, in answer to Andrew's calls, thej 
 horses came trotting up one by one, standiugj 
 shyly and sniffing with outstretched noses 
 Andrew's hand. He crossed the fence into the I 
 field and fed them with bunches of s\w.\ 
 Judith looked on longingly. 
 
 " Could I come over ? " she asked doubtfully | 
 
 " Yes, indeed," he said. " Do." 
 
 " Turn your back, then." 
 
 Andrew obeyed promptly, and Miss Moorej 
 mounted slowly to the top rail, where she 
 
mm 
 
 . 
 
 1 
 
 with the 
 
 1 
 
 JUDITH MvOORE. 
 
 165 
 
 •e, <lr.i\vini; 
 
 tion. 
 
 at him sus- 
 
 aid An(i^e^Y, 
 ihroiigh the 
 fence, and 
 |s calls, the 
 fie, standing 
 Led noses at 
 ince into the 
 |s of gras^ 
 
 doubtfully. 
 
 iMiss MoortI 
 jre she s\d\ 
 
 uncertainly a moment. It slipped, she gave a 
 little cry, and the next instant Andrew had 
 lifted her lightly down. He held her for a 
 second in his arms ; eacli felt the tremour of the 
 othf^r's heart, and then she was released and was 
 standing trembling by his side. The horses 
 pricked their ears and eyed her nervously, and 
 Andrew gazed down at her with his heart in his 
 oyes. 
 
 She held out one of her ferns to the horses, 
 shrinking a little closer to Andrew as tliey 
 drew near to sniff at it with their velvety 
 muzzles. One after another lipped at the fern, 
 but would not take it. 
 
 " They won't eat that," said Andrew, and his 
 voice was very gentle. " Offer them this." 
 
 So Judith held out the grass he gave her, 
 [catching hold of his sleeve like a child for pro- 
 tection when his big Clydesdale colt stretched 
 [out his head towards her. And presently the 
 [horses left them one by one, till all were gone 
 [except Andrew's clean-limbed bay, upon whose 
 [back the wet mark of the saddle was yet visible, 
 [for Andrew^ had ridden into town that afternoon. 
 
 And Judith grew^ bolder and patted its soft 
 lose and beautiful neck, and Andrew watching 
 ler thought that nowhere, surely nowhere, in 
 ill the wide world was there a sweeter woman 
 
 
mm] I i;^^{. , 
 
 
 166 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 than this. And he longed to question the 
 universe, if within all its realm there was any- 
 thing so lovely as the fragile hands which 
 showed so white against Rob Roy's arching 
 neck. 
 
 The twilight deepened. A littb wistful wind 
 rippled through the long meadow-grass. 
 
 " We must go," said Andrew, " or the dew will 
 wet you." 
 
 " Oh, it wouldn't hurt me," said Judith. 
 
 " Better not risk it," said Andrew. So they 
 walked along within the meadow to the gate, 
 Rob Roy following them, every now and then 
 touching Andrew's shoulder with his out- 
 stretched nose. He stood whilst the bars were 
 taken down, and whinnied softly as they left 
 him. " What a dear fellow he is," said Judith. 
 
 They soon reached the Morris house, where 
 Mr. Morris was mending a bridle on the door- 
 step, and Mrs. Morris in the fading light was 
 busy carrying out a plan to frustrate the I 
 assaults of the chickens upon her flower beds: 
 for every chicken in Mrs. Morris's possession 
 seemed inspired with an evil desire to acratch 
 up her seedlings so soon as she transplanted | 
 them from the boxes in the kitchen to the b 
 in front of the house. So between the rows oil 
 balsams and marigolds and amongst the rui'}| 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 167 
 
 stemmed seedlings of the prince's feather, Mrs. 
 Morris had stuck in bits of shingles. 
 
 " There," said Mrs. Morris, straightening her- 
 self after plunging her last piece into the earth. 
 " There ! I guess them chickens has got their 
 work cut out for them before they root out 
 them plants. They do seem to be possessed by 
 evil speerits, them chickens ! That's the third 
 planting of ms.rigolds, and what prince's feather 
 there is left is only what sowed itself last year 
 and came up late. My sakes ! wasn't it hot in 
 town to-day, Andrew ? " 
 
 "Yes," said Andrew, from where he stood 
 I leaning against the porch. 
 
 Judith was standing by Mrs. Morris, looking 
 [at the flower beds where each little seedling was 
 Isurrounded by a palisade of narrow strips of 
 [shingle. 
 
 Mrs. Morris brought out some chairs, and they 
 
 it talking a the dusk wliile the summer moon 
 rrew out of the horizon, and slowly, slowly 
 
 iled aloft, paling as it attained its height, till 
 a a glowing disk of yellow it changed to a 
 hudowless silver shield 
 
 " Won't you sing to us. Miss Moore ? " asked 
 Lndrew. 
 
 " Yea, do," urged Mi-s. Morris. 
 What will 1 sing ? " asked Judith, but with- 
 
 J^ 
 
i(:rr^mmtmm 
 
 m 
 
 m 
 
 m,'. < 
 
 ll'/'«l-.' i'l^» 
 
 168 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 out waiting for an answer began. She sang an 
 Italian love-song, a masterpiece of passion and 
 pain — sang it as perhaps no living woman could 
 sing it, making music in such fashion that the 
 hearts of her hearers were melted within them, 
 voicing in it all the timorous new joy, the half- 
 happy fears that filled her heart, with some- 
 what of the poignant pathos of renunciation. 
 Some one says, " Music is the counterpart of life 
 in spirit speech," and it would seem that in one 
 perfect song tliere may be condensed all the 
 emotion of life and love, all the pathos of pain 
 and parting. As the song died away Andrew 
 gave a long sigh. The pleasure of such music 
 ofttimes prolongs itself to pain. Perhaps it was 
 some recognition of the great value of Judith's 
 gift of song, perhaps it was because she sang 
 familiarly an unknown tongue that made 
 Andrew suddenly feel the chill of a great gulf 
 fixed between them. The arms which had held 
 her for a moment in the pasture-field yearned 
 with ineffable longing for a joy denied them. 
 
 But Judith was singing again, " The Angels 
 Serenade," one of the loveliest things ever writ- 
 ten. When she finished there was a silence. 
 Mrs. Morris' hard- worked hands were clasped I 
 tremblingly together, tears were stream in ij over 
 her face, her heart was yearning towards the 
 little mounds in the unkempt churchyard. 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 169 
 
 " Hannah," said her grey-haired husband, lay- 
 ing his hand upon her shoulder. Their eyes 
 met. That was all; but dumbly they had 
 shared the cup of their sorrow. A bitter com- 
 munion, one wou ay, yet good to make strong 
 the spirit, as the . _ter barks strengthen the 
 body. 
 
 And a few minutes later Mrs. Morris slipped 
 away into the house, perhaps to open that shrine 
 where were hidden some tiny half-worn gar- 
 ments, perhaps out of sympathy for the two 
 young people who might wish to be alone ; and 
 when Judith began to sing again, she and 
 Andrew were alone, for Mr. Morris, with lum- 
 bering attempts at caution, had followed his 
 wife. 
 
 Andrew's heart was aching with inexplicable 
 [pain. Judith was singing an old theme, com- 
 posed long since by some f rocked and cowled 
 [musician, whose rigid vows and barren life 
 jcould not quite suppress the dream of music 
 [within his soul. It was a simple and austere 
 lelody, yet endued with a peculiar pathos, the 
 reaming of a defrauded life for the joy that 
 Bhould have crowned it, the regret of a barren 
 )re8ent for a fruitful past, the wail of the must 
 for the might have been. 
 
 And as she sang, the gulf which Andrew had 
 12 
 
170 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 iii 
 
 ■as leffl 
 
 I lip 
 
 f' % 
 
 1' 'III 
 
 I, 1 
 
 perceived between them widened into a great 
 black sea, across which her voice came to him 
 where he stood alone forever upon the shore; 
 and just as the pain grew too poignant to be 
 borne, a bat darted near them, Judith gave a 
 frightened cry and fled to his side, and the gulf 
 was bridged in a second by a strong strand knit 
 of a woman's foolish fear and a man's reassuring 
 word. 
 
 And soon a light shone down from an upstain j 
 window. Judith started up. " You must go I 
 straight away home," she said, " Mrs. Morris 
 gone to her room." 
 
 "Come as far as the gate with me," s 
 Andrew, and she went. But after they I 
 tr'ked a moment Judith remembered the 
 so, of course, Andrew had to take her back toil 
 porch in safety. 
 
 At length he was forced to go, so with a 
 " good-night," and a last long look into her eyei| 
 he strode away to his home on the hill. 
 
 The leaves of the chestnut trees were rustlinjl 
 in uncertain flaws of wind; the crickets wen| 
 creaking eerily from out the darkness; the field 
 all pearled with dew, shimmered in the ffiootj 
 light. 
 
 It was a solitary hour. But Andrew's he 
 was light within his breast ; Judith's eyes hjj 
 been very sweet when she said " Good-night' 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 171 
 
 And Judith climbed the blue-painted wooden 
 stairs to her little corner-room, and lay long 
 awake, forgetting the promise of her great 
 future, forgetting the efforts of the past, forget- 
 ting the debt she owed her manager, only 
 knowing that she loved and was beloved again, 
 only recalling the eyes this brown young 
 farmer had bent upon her, only remembering 
 the tender strength of his arms, as, lot a moment, 
 they had encircled her. A simple dream this ? 
 Perhaps. But let such a vision once weave 
 itself into the fabric of a life, and all else will 
 seem poor and mean beside it. 
 
 It was a beautiful sunshiny Sunday as Judith 
 stood in the porch waiting for Mrs. Morris, who 
 presently appeared, clad in a black calico with 
 white spots on it, black silk gloves and a bonnet 
 with a purple flower. 
 
 Judith had dressed herself in a-little frock of 
 pale green linen, and her face bloomed like a 
 rose above it. Her hat and parasol were of the 
 same cool tint as her frock, and as the walk in 
 the sunshine flushed her cheeks with unaccus- 
 tomed colour, she looked much like a sweet 
 pink flower set in green leaves; at least, so 
 Andrew thought when he saw her entering the 
 Ichurch beside Mrs. Morris. 
 
 The Methodist church was slowly filling with 
 
 i 
 
 VM^ 
 
I: tg 
 
 172 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 ■I m 
 
 
 
 women and children. Sam Symmons' Suse had 
 just gone in, and the Misses Green were but a 
 few yards behind. The men in Ovid had an 
 evil habit of standing along the sides of the 
 churches talking whilst the first hymn was 
 being sung; and frequently, if there was any 
 particularly interesting topic on hand, till the 
 first prayer was offered. In winter the sunny 
 side was chosen ; in summer they availed them- 
 selves of the scanty shade afforded by the slant- 
 ing eaves, standing, their heads and shoulders j 
 in shadow, their freshly polished shoes glisten- 
 ing in the sun, their jaws moving rhythmically I 
 as they chewed their wads of " black strap,' 
 A remark made at one end of the row perco- 
 lated slowly to the other, each man judicially j 
 revolving it in his mind and voicing his opinioDJ 
 in deliberate nasal tones. 
 
 ** Lord, a little band and lowly, 
 We have come to worship thee, 
 Thou art great and high and holy, 
 Oh ! how solemn we should be." 
 
 So the women and children sang insidtl 
 accompanied by a wheezy melodeon. Thei 
 heightened the effect by emphasizing the adjei 
 tives strongly and singing " solium " with gr 
 unanimity in the last line. 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 173 
 
 Andrew listened for Judith's voice, but 
 evidently she had concluded not to sing. An- 
 drew was disappointed. He had been looking 
 forward in high glee to watching the amazement 
 of his neighbours when they heard that marvel- 
 lous voice. The truth was, Judith had not seen 
 him where he stood beside the church, and was 
 too busy looking about surreptitiously to see if 
 he had fulfilled his promise about coming, to 
 think of the singing either one way or the other. 
 And when she saw Miss Myers sitting stiffly 
 I alone in the corner of a pew near the front, her 
 [heart sank like lead, and all her happy eagerness 
 over the service departed. She was piqued, too, 
 land began to feel a nasty heartache stirring 
 [within her breast. 
 
 The singing was over. An interspace of quiet 
 
 ^tokened to those outside that the prayer was 
 
 progress, and a rustling of leaves and settling 
 
 )f dresses proclaimed the fact that the preacher 
 
 id his congregation were ready for the serious 
 
 |)usiress of the day, the proceedings up to this 
 
 )int being tacitly regarded as the preliminary 
 
 inter before the weekly contest with Original 
 
 In, that dark horse which, ridden by that 
 
 lowing jockey. Opportunity, wins so many 
 
 ces for the Evil One. At this juncture the 
 
 en came in one by one, each trying to look as 
 
174 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 Uninterested in his neighbours as possible, to 
 give the impression that this influx of the male 
 element was purely accidental and not the result 
 of concerted movement. 
 
 It is somewhat doubtful if this impression 
 was conveyed to the preacher, as the same 
 circumstance had occurred every Sunday since 
 he had been there; and certainly it deluded 
 none of the women, who, well aware of the 
 gossiping tendencies of their men, never held 
 themselves at the approved "attention" attitudf* 
 till this stage in the proceedings, but who then 
 \\ -xed marvellously stiff* as to posture, and 
 marvellously meek as to expression. 
 
 When Judith looked up next time, it was to 
 meet two eager, grey eyes looking at her from 
 Miss Myers' pew, and all at once the incipient 
 heartache vanished, a calm of sweet content 
 fell upoi? her spirit. She looked around, and 
 apprehended all the poignant blending of pathos 
 and absurdity about her. Her eyes softened as 
 they fell upon old Sam Symmons* hard-wrought 
 hands resting on the top of his stout stick, and 
 lighted as she saw Tommy Slick's rose and white 
 face and impish eyes showing above the door of 
 a centre pew. Her tender eyes sought out and 
 read the story of the deep-lined faces about her, 
 and a great pity for their narrow lives filled | 
 her. 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 175 
 
 Tho Rermon was just begun when the green 
 baize door swung back a little, and an investi- 
 gating^ dog entered. He wjia one of those nosing, 
 pryiijg, peering dogs which seem to typify no 
 exact!)' the attitude of some people towards 
 their neighbours' affaiiu He peregrinated 
 through the pews, around the melodeon, up 
 and down the aisle, and then turned his canine 
 attention to the prencher's reading desk. The 
 preacher became manifestly uneasy; all his 
 sensitiveness slowly centred in his heels, round 
 which the dog sniffed. Judith, whose sense of 
 the humorous was painfully acute, gave one 
 glance at Andrew, and then became absorbed 
 in trying to control her laughter. The dog still 
 lingered where he was. The preacher's face was 
 flushed ; his words faltered. Every one felt that 
 some one else should do something. 
 
 At length, after many significant gestures 
 and nudges from his wife, Hiram Green rose 
 and approached the dog with outstretched hand, 
 rubbing his fingers together in the manner which 
 we imagine impresses a dumb animal with a 
 [deep sense of pacific intentions. The dog backed 
 away. Hiram followed as the dog retreated. It 
 [paused, wagging its tail doubtfully. Hiram 
 sat down on his toes and patted his knee in 
 a wheedling manner with one hand, whilst with 
 
176 
 
 JUDITH MOOllE. 
 
 <i>»f 
 
 r 
 
 111 
 
 the other he made ready to grasp his prey. The 
 dog came a little nearer. 
 
 Hiram grasped — but grasped short ; his fingers 
 met on empty air, and he nearly overbalancer]. 
 For the moment he had the wild feeling a 
 person experiences when a rocking-chair goes 
 over with him — a sort of gasping clutch at 
 terra fi^^ma. 
 
 Judith was nearly in tears from agonies of 
 suppressed laughter, knowing, as she did, that 
 Andrew was waiting to catch her eye. That, 
 she felt, would finish matters so far as she was 
 concerned ; a sense of companionship makes 
 one's appreciation of a joke painfully intense. 
 
 Hiram was conscious that the Sunday School 
 in the gallery was red with suppressed excite- 
 ment ; that his neighbours' interest in the sermon 
 was purely perfunctory ; ho even had a horrible 
 thought that the preacher himself was laughing 
 at him. In this he was wrong ; the preacher 
 was nearly distracted, having lost the thread of 
 his sermon, and was maundering wildly on, 
 hoping to disentangle his argument before 
 Hiram caught the dog. 
 
 Hiram, grown desperate, added to his alluring 
 gestures the blandishment of half-voiced words, 
 which sounded like "Poor dog," "Good dog," 
 but which meant, " You infernal brute." The I 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 177 
 
 dog succumbed at length, its last suspicions 
 allayed by this specious use of the gift it did 
 not possess, and presently the congregation was 
 edified by seeing Hiram, flushed, but with an 
 expression of great loving-kindness, carry the 
 dog gently down the aisle. Slowly and softly 
 Hiram carried him until near the door, when 
 circuindtances made him accelerate his speed, 
 for the dog was Tommy Slick's Nip, a shiny, 
 smooth -coated dog, and Hiram's hold was gradu- 
 ally slipping. He had an unpleasant but confi- 
 dent premonition that the dog would reach for 
 him, as dogs are prone to do, when his fingers 
 got to the tender spot beneath the forepaws. 
 However, he reached and passed the baize door 
 in safety, and in the second which followed, 
 the congregation, with the sigh with which one 
 relinquishes an acme of intense and pleasurable 
 excitement, turned its attention to the preacher. 
 At that moment there came a shrill and ear- 
 splitting yelp. Hiram had taken the dog to 
 the top of the steps, and applied his foot in 
 the manner most likely to speed the parting 
 I guest. Hiram entered and took his place with 
 a very red face. He felt dimly that the yelp 
 was a criticism upon the smile with which he 
 carried the dog out. To Hiram that sermon 
 [did not tend to edification. 
 
 ■4 
 
178 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 That particular Sunday was a memorable one 
 in Ovid. The congregation had just gathered 
 itself together after the incident of the dog, 
 when the preacher announced the hymn. It 
 was one of the few really beautiful hymns, 
 " Lead, kindly Light." 
 
 Judith rose to sing with the rest, and with 
 the second word her voice joined w ith the others, 
 dominating them as the matin song of the lark 
 might pierce through the chatter of sparrows 
 along the eaves. When Judith opened her lips 
 to sing, music possessed her, and, a true artiste 
 to her finger-tips, she never sang carelessly. 
 Absorbed in her book — for she did not know 
 the words — she sang on. The people looked and 
 wondered, and one by one the voices died away 
 the wheezy notes of the melodeon faltered forth 
 from beneath the secoAd Miss Green's uncertain 
 fingers, and Judith sang on serenely, standing 
 erect, her head held high, her soft throat throb- 
 bing like a bird's. Outside the air was golden 
 with yellow sunshine, within it was cool and 
 darkened. A rift of light slanted through the 
 closed shutters of the window near which 
 Judith stood ; thousands of little motes danced 
 in it, specks and gleams of gold. Through the 
 open windows there came the odour of dried 
 grass, and every now and then a flaw of wind 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 179 
 
 brought a whiff from Oscar Randall's field of 
 white clover. Andrew had laughed in the 
 meadow as he thought of Judith's voice elec- 
 trifying the people in tho church, but he had 
 forgotten that he himself was not secure against 
 its charm. Laughter was far from his thoughts 
 now. 
 
 "Lead, kindljr Light, amid the encircling gloom, 
 Lead thou me on. 
 The night is dark, and I am far from home ; 
 Lead thou me on." 
 
 The words, upborne upon the wings of 
 matchless song, seemed to soar far beyond the 
 confines of the little church, taking with them 
 the inarticulate trust and hope and confidence 
 of all these humble folk. / ^^v >. 
 
 The preacher sat looking at her, pale and 
 entranced. This singing seemed suddenly to 
 open a long-closed door in his life, so that once 
 more he looked down that chimerical vista from 
 out the misty distances of which illusive hands 
 beckoned him on to brighter things. He had 
 once dreamed of a loftier destiny than the life 
 of a Methodist preacher, but that was long past; 
 still it was sweet to recall so vividly the season 
 when his spirit had wings. He sat before his 
 congregation, a tall, spare man, large of bone 
 and awkward, with a countenance upon which 
 
180 
 
 JUDITH MOORlB. 
 
 self-denial had graven deep cruel lines, a brow 
 that had weathered many bitter blasts. In 
 type he was near allied to the people before 
 him, the last man, one would fancy, whom 
 dreams would visit. And yet, as he listened to 
 this stranger girl, singing alone in the midst of 
 his congregation, there fell deeply upon him 
 the trance of dead delight ; the simple panorama 
 of his past spread itself before his eyes, blotting 
 out the faces before, him as a shimmering mist 
 obscures an unlovely scene. 
 
 It was a very simple vision, a "homespun 
 dream of simple folk." He saw a rosy -cheeked 
 village girl, for whose sake he as a village lad 
 had worked and toiled and slaved. He had 
 fought for education and success that he might 
 lay them at her feet. He had kept her waiting 
 long. She was only a poor, pretty girl, and she 
 had other lovers. One night, when her lover in 
 a garret in the city was poring over his books, 
 his head aching, his heart faltering, yet perse- 
 vering as much for her sake as for the sake of 
 his faith, she, driving home from a dance througli 
 dewy lanes and softly-shadowed country roads, 
 promised to marry the farmer's son who was 
 taking her home. 
 
 The news reached him in his garret, and some- 
 thing flickered out of his face which never shone 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 181 
 
 there again. But with the tenacity of his I'ace 
 he stuck to his work. His heart was in the 
 green fields always, and he had come from a 
 long line of country men and women. He had 
 no inherited capacity for learning, but he got 
 through his course somehow, and became fen 
 accredited minister, and the day he was ordained 
 the news of her death reached him, and that 
 was all. He had never censured her ; in his 
 thoughts she had ever been an angel of sweet- 
 ness and goodness, and as Judith sang, all these 
 things rushed back upon his heart. It was with 
 a very white face and a very soft voice that he 
 rose to address his people, and he spoke home 
 to their hearts, for he knew whereof he spake 
 when he dealt with the pains and trials and 
 troubles of their lives. He was only the height 
 of his platform removed from them, and he had 
 paid dearly for his paltry elevation, but from its 
 height he saw, far oflf perhaps, but clear, the 
 shining of a great light, and with ineloquent, 
 slow speech he strove to translate its glory and 
 its promise to the people before him. '^ 
 
 Church was over ; the people pressed slowly 
 along the aisle into the palpitant warmth of 
 the summer afternoon. Miss Myers came up to 
 Judith when she stood for a moment at the 
 door, and invited her to go home with them to 
 
182 
 
 aumxH Moone. 
 
 
 the house on the hill, and Judith, nothing toftlK 
 consented. So presently aho a\\\l Andrew, with 
 Miss Myei*s, were walking through the Hluuiber 
 ous little streets of the village. 
 
 As they drew near the house of Bill Aikins, 
 they caught sight of hini sitting on the door- 
 step peeling potatoes, beads of perspiration upon 
 his brow, for he was suffering sorely from Kate's 
 weekly infliction of a white shirt. 
 
 Bill had " a little wee face, with a little yellow 
 beard, a Cain-coloured beard," and usually wore 
 a deprecatory smile upon his countenance. He 
 was possessed of a perfect temper, and whatever 
 his lot might seem to others, to himself it was 
 all that could be desired. To be the husband of 
 such a woman, could man desire a better fate ; 
 And, indeed, Kate Aikins was a fine-looking 
 woman, tall and straight. Old Sam Symmons 
 often said she was a "gallant figure of a woman. 
 
 As they passed the house they heard Kate's 
 voice sounding shrilly from within : 
 
 : " He did what ? Weighed the paper with the 
 cheese ? And you stood by and never said a word ' 
 I'll be bound ! Well, ' a fool and his nioney is soon 
 parted.' There's truth in them old sayings yet, 
 The idea of you being scared to speak to Hi 
 Green and him cheating you before your very 
 face ! Land sakes I What's he I wonder ? Next 
 
 -,%•' 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 183 
 
 time you go to buy cheese you take paper with 
 you. He asks enough for the cheese without 
 paying for paper." 
 
 As they got beyond hearing, Judith's face 
 burned out of sympathy for Bill's embarrass- 
 ment. However, Bill was in nowise troubled. 
 lie knew his wife would be quite as ready to 
 express herself towards any one else in the 
 village as to himself, and a philosophy born of 
 that reflection entirely prevented Bill from feel- 
 ing in any degree abashed by strangers enjoying 
 his wife's eloquence. 
 
 It was only two days since she had announced 
 to him with much satisfaction that she had "just 
 told Sarah Myers what she thouglit of her," and 
 she had expressed a 1* 'ging desire of late to 
 have a five minutes' talk with A/zdr^w CvLiiht, 
 relative to some supposed slight he liad put 
 upon her. The whole vilkg/» was well aware of 
 many instancen of Bill's discom/ii«//^i when K«^/> 
 first married him and undertook his ref or million. 
 
 There was the day whe/i Bill, well on towards 
 being thoroughly drunk, was returning home 
 down the village street, walking cftreles^y 
 through the deep slush of early spring. Kate 
 met him. She, if truth be told, was on the 
 lookout for him, having despatched him more 
 than two hours before to get some starch fioj^ 
 the store. 
 
184 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 Between waiting for the starch and waiting 
 for Bill, Kate was v/roth when she opened the 
 door to begin her search. By an unlucky 
 chance, her first step took her over the ankles in 
 icy slush, which, strange to say, instead of cool- 
 ing her wrath, raised it to white heat. There- 
 fore, when she, carefully picking her way up 
 one side of the street, beheld Bill advancing 
 down the other, regardless of mud and slush, 
 she paused in disgust, until he was nearly oppo- 
 site to her, and then ejaculated in a tone of 
 deepest disbelief in her own vision — " Bill ! is 
 that you V ' 
 
 " No," promptly replied Bill, " nor nobody 
 like me either ; " with which the valiant Bill 
 had resumed his way, feeling proud that he 
 had not only dismissed certainty but even sus- 
 picion of his identity from Kate's mind. 
 
 Before long he was a sadder and for the 
 nonce, a wiser man, for Kate reached home as 
 soon as he did, and thereupon gave him to under- 
 stand in a very unmistakable way that he was 
 her property and she knew it. 
 
 All Ovid remembered this, and indeed could 
 not well forget it, for every wash-day, when 
 starch naturally cropped up as one of the cir- 
 cumstances attendant upon the event of washing, 
 Kate mjght have been heard by any passer-by 
 

 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 185 
 
 giving Bill a full and dramatic account of the 
 occurrence, with preface upon drunkenness in 
 general, and appendix upon Bill's phases of the 
 vice in particular, and copious addenda, of con- 
 tempt, contumely and vituperation. Bill listened, 
 marvelling and admiring, for her flow of language 
 was a great source of pride to Bill, albeit directed 
 at himself. 
 
 Indeed, he sacrificed his comfort willingly to 
 enjoy the mental treat lier angry eloquence 
 afforded him. There had been times, however, 
 when Kate's lessons had taken a more practical 
 and infinitely less entertaining form. It was 
 one of these which effected Bill's final reforma- 
 tion. The memory of it brought smiles to the 
 Hps of Ovidians, young or old, whenever they 
 met Bill. ^ ^ -^ 
 
 With all good managers in Ovid, it is the 
 custom to salt down a small barrel of herrings in 
 autumn. These they buy from their fisherman 
 neighbours for a dollar per hundred. Now Kate, 
 who was certainly, as even her enemies admitted, 
 a forehanded woman, sent Bill with a silver 
 dollar, to get her a hundred herrings, one day 
 when the proper season came around. With 
 this Bill duly proceeded to the fishermen, paid 
 his dollar and got his lierringH. As he turned to 
 go, Sam Turner shouted an invitation to him 
 
 1 
 
iJ4 
 
 186 
 
 JUDITH MOOllE. 
 
 M'i 
 
 mm 
 
 to come down at night and have a share of the 
 beer which was to be on tap at the Upper Fish- 
 ing Station. Bill assented and went his way. 
 
 After his six o'clock supper, he told Kate he 
 was going to get his saw sharpened at the 
 blacksmith shop, and so set out. He left the 
 saw at the blacksmith's, then smartened his pace 
 along the street, down the steep incline to the 
 river's edge, carefully along the river path until 
 he disappeared into the fisherman's little hut. 
 
 The door was closed, then Bill, Sam Turner, 
 and some half-dozen others gathered round the 
 kt»g of Hiiuiggled l»ner, and all went merry as 
 the traditional w«mI( ling bell. 
 
 About half-past eleven, Bill and the otlieis 
 emerged. The cask was em[)ty — tliuir condition 
 the antithesis of the cask's. Lurching, Htiiiii 
 bling, falling, sliding along the river |iii(li, 
 scrambling, crawling, oliuiblng up the ImnkHln 
 the l(»\'nl, {,\u\\\ along the street to Bill'H lioiiif 
 All this took time, and it was the hour vvhoii 
 ghosts do walk ere they neared Bill's door. A 
 dim light gleamed in the window. " Jjf^fwoii 
 t)ia' lights me home, boys," said Bill, who, having 
 passed the transitory phases of moroseness andj 
 pugnaciousness, to the higher state of tears and j 
 courage, had now reached the acme of sentim(!nt | 
 and drunkenness simultaneously, and was ready, 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 187 
 
 as he expressed several times on the way up the 
 bank in a voice which came from different atti- 
 tudes, as the speaker stood upright, crept, or lay 
 flat, "To kish Kate and fight for the country 
 b'gosh." Bill and his friends approached the door. 
 Bill gently tried it. It was locked, so Bill said. 
 They each tried it in turn, and each pronounced 
 it locked in a voice betokening a strange and 
 new discovery. They each knocked in turn — 
 silence. Thc'^ each kicked in turn — silence. 
 Then Bill said in a lordly way, " Kate, open the 
 door ! " adding in an aside to his fellows, " I'll 
 for^ve her, kish her, make her happy." Then 
 again, " Kate, open the door ! " 
 
 K*te did open the door, with such abrupt and 
 unexp«»cted suddenness that Bill, standing before 
 It, I in I u need back on his heels and raised his out- 
 H|irefv«| lilMlds. His confreres were preparing to 
 make biudt Hl-tt^/N of themFolvcs to brace Bill 
 lip, whnn Kate's hand and arm reached forth, 
 and, with one single movomeiit, as Sara Turner 
 afterwards grapliically described her action, 
 "yiiiil^nd" Bill into the house and HJaiiimed 
 the door. 
 
 There was silence for a moment, followed by 
 a slow sliding sound. His late companions suj?# 
 I rounded the two uncurtained //indowa and prof 
 pared to wa4^,h ey^ts. 
 
 ' I 
 
188 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 m 
 
 j i 
 
 Bill had slowly slid down, until he was now 
 in a sitting posture on the floor, with hia back 
 against the door. Kate had vanished ; she soon 
 entered from the back of the house bringing 
 two pails of water, with which she proceeded 
 deliberately to give Bill a cold bath. Bill said 
 several times in a weak voice, " Kish me, Kate," 
 but Kate, preserving an admirable silence, con- 
 tinued the deluge until Bill, with some show of 
 sobriety and nimbleness, arose. By this time 
 the water was pouring out beneath the door, 
 and the catchers outside were shivering sym- 
 pathetically. As Bill rose, he certainly looked 
 miserable enough to excite pity, even in Kate's 
 heart; but the worst was not yet. 
 
 Disregarding the water streaming on the floor, 
 Kate proceeded to arrange two chairs, with an 
 accompaniment of cloths, knives, salt, and a 
 small keg. Lastly, she produced two baskets 
 of herrings. It was now evident to the horrified 
 watchers that her dire purpose was to make Bill 
 clean, wash, and salt down the hundred herrings 
 then and there. And such was the case. The i 
 watchers stayed until eyes and limbs were 
 weary, and then crept away awe-struck at the 
 terrors of matrimony, and deeply impressed by 
 Kate's moral supremacy. 
 
 A?^4 ^m worked and worked. IJis l^and was I 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 189 
 
 unsteady, and his blood flowed freely from 
 numerous cuts to mingle with the herrings. 
 He scraped and scrape 1, and bedaubed himself 
 with scales. He salted and salted, and the salt 
 bit his many cuts. But Kate was mexorable. 
 Every herring was cleane I, scaled, washed, salted 
 and packed, and the Mbria thor ^ughly cleaned 
 up before the miserable, white-faced, repentant 
 Bill was allowed to rest, and durii.j^' it all 
 Kate talked and talked and talked. From that 
 night Bill was a changed man, and his admira- 
 tion for Kate became more than ever pro- 
 nounced. 
 
 Every time one of those herring appeared on 
 the table, Kate gave Bill a resume of the whole 
 affair, with variations upon her theme, which 
 her vivid and fertile imagination suggested. 
 After the herrings were finished, she revived 
 the subject wheno^er the names of any of those 
 with him that night, fish, the river, or the fishing 
 station were mentioned. These were the regular 
 cogent subjects. But any reference to salted 
 meats, cold water, late hours, etc., was very apt 
 to draw forth a like narration, so that a day 
 rarely passed without Bill's memory being re- 
 freshed thus, which was indeed a work of 
 supererogation, for Bill never forgot it. 
 
 Andrew and Miss Myers recited many such 
 
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 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 tales for Judith's edification as they walked up 
 to the Cutler house, and whilst they sat at 
 table. 
 
 But later on, whan Miss Myers hastened off 
 to count the eggs which had been brought in, to 
 see if her chickens were properly fed, and to 
 generally look after the ways of her household, 
 the talk fell into other channels. 
 
 Andrew and Judith talked seriously, looking 
 into each other's eyes with no veil upon their 
 own, each drinking deeply of the peaceful 
 rapture of the hour. The scents from the old 
 garden filled their nostrils, the breath from the 
 box diffused through the other odours a thread 
 of fresh bitterness, savouring them from satiety. 
 
 A great clematis hung at one side of the 
 porch, the deep green of its leaves set dose 
 with purple stars. Upon the other side a Tar- 
 tarean honeysuckle was covered with coral- 
 coloured buds. Far off in one corner they could 
 see a blur of gold where the thorny Scotch roses 
 were a mass of bloom. 
 
 They sat long talking, and presently Miss 
 Myers came round the corner of the house 
 with her dress tucked up about her and thej 
 servant girl following with water pails; ai 
 soon the scent of fresh moist earth was mingled | 
 with the fragrance of the flowers. 
 
 '^fW • 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 191 
 
 Rufus lay at their feet, looking \ip at them 
 with wistful, hazel eyes. It was a simple scene, 
 yet in it was being enacted a drama of delight. 
 
 There is no sweeter time in a woman's life 
 than the first hours of a mutual love ere speech 
 has profaned it. Judith was having her halcyon 
 hour now, and she rejoiced in it with sweet 
 natural happiness. The memory of her greatness 
 had all but faded from her memory ; now and 
 then from sleep's horizon it pointed a threaten- 
 ing finger at her; now and then in morning 
 dreams she recalled it vaguely, the wraith of a 
 not unhappy season. But she had no fear of it. 
 Her only apprehension was that she had mis- 
 read the message in Andrew's ardent eyes, and 
 that fear only lived when they were apart, for, 
 as she welcomed him upon the old weather- 
 beaten doorstep, where the spent petals of the 
 loose-leaved climbing roses lay, blots of crimson 
 on the grey, or bade him farewell at the gate 
 where the white syringas surrounded them with 
 the odour of orange blossoms, she found in his 
 eyes the strength and blessing of a deep and 
 perfect love. 
 
l:,iv,?'. 
 
 . «i. ■ :' , 
 
 , l\: 
 
 w , CHAPTER IX. 
 
 "NoWj ii this earthly love has power to make 
 Men's being mortal, immorcal ; to shake 
 Ambitions from their memories, and brim 
 Their measure of content : what merest whim 
 Seems all this poor endeavour after fame." 
 
 One day Judith, who had been in the village, 
 went up to see Miss Myers. It was intensely 
 warm. To the eye the air seemed to quiver 
 with heat; a brazen sun shone in a cloudless 
 sky; the birds were still; nature was dumb; 
 the only sounds which broke the stillness were 
 echoes of enforced toil. As Judith walked 
 along the lanes, now grown deep in p'^isa, the 
 fragrance of over-ripe clover came to her in 
 waves of satiating sweetness. The birds she 
 startled uttered no cry, but flevr heavily .0 
 some near perch and sat there languidly, with 
 feathers ruffled on their little heads, their tiny 
 bills apart as if they gasped for breath, their 
 wings drooping loosely with parted feathers at 
 their sides. 
 
 When she reached the house on the hill, she 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 193 
 
 went straight through the hall to the kitchen, 
 for she had long ago been given the liberty of 
 the house. 
 
 Miss Myers bustled up with grim kindness, 
 took away her hat, made her sit by the window, 
 and brought her a great cool goblet of raspberry 
 syrup in water. It was very cool in this big 
 kitchen. The windows were heavily hung with 
 Virginian Creeper, and the stove was in the 
 summer kitchen. Rufus lay stretched in one 
 comer, his ears flapping as he snatched irascibly 
 a^ a tormenting fly. 
 
 Miss Myers had been a little upset when 
 Judith entered, and phe proceeded to tell Judith 
 her worries. She had come out to inspect the 
 kitclien work, and found her milk pans set out 
 without their bunches of grass. 
 
 "A silly notion of Sarah Myers," the Ovid 
 women called it, but it was a dainty one never- 
 theless — one Miss Myers' mother and mother's 
 mother had always observed, since ever the 
 first Myers left the meadows of Devon. This 
 notion was that all summer long Miss Myers 
 insisted that the polished milk pans, when set 
 out to sweeten in the sun, should each have a 
 bunch of fresh gresa or clover put in it, to 
 wither in the pan. She declared it gave sweet- 
 ness and flavour t<D the milk. 
 
194 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 if: m 
 
 ! 
 
 t 
 
 Ml 
 t M 
 
 Miss Myers had many dainty ways in her 
 house-keeping. The glossy linen sheets were laid 
 away with clusters of sweet clover in their folds. 
 Her snowy blankets were packed with cedar 
 sprigs. Her table linen was fragrant all sum- 
 mer with the stolen perfume of violets or rose 
 leaves strewn with them in the linen drawer. 
 And in the winter there were twigs of lemon 
 thyme and lemon verbena tl»ere; carefully dried 
 for that purpose. "All notions," the villagers 
 said contemptuously, adding something about 
 old maids. Nevertheless, these notions savoured 
 the whole household with sweetness, and seemed 
 to add beauty to the more prosaic details of 
 every-day work. 
 
 Since Judith had come so frequently to the 
 house, there had always been flowers upon the 
 dining table and in the parlour, and in the big 
 dim bedroom. 
 
 Hot as it was. Miss Myers was ready to go 
 out and patrol the garden, which, subdued 
 beneath the sun's caresses, lay exhaling a hun- 
 dred varied scents. The tall white lilies were 
 in bloom at last, ineflkbly lovely, with golden 
 hearts and petals whose edges were silvery in j 
 the sunshine. 
 
 When Andrew returned at night from 1 
 fields, his strong face a little weary, his eyes] 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 195 
 
 restless and eager, the first sight that met his 
 vision was Judith Moore, — Judith, in a jimple 
 dark blue frock, standing in the doorway of 
 his home, and looking — he dared hope — for 
 him. She looked so consonant with the old 
 house and the flowerful garden that Andrew 
 felt no other presence in the world would have 
 completed the picture so well. 
 
 How sweet to see a woman waiting there for 
 him! Even as he had dreamed. He stood 
 some time srxd watched her, himself unobserved. 
 How sweet and calm her face was — yet antici- 
 pative, content — ^yet eager ! He looked at her 
 long across the narrow space from where he 
 stood, and in after days recalled her untroubled 
 beauty very clearly. 
 
 He tried to note in detail the form of her 
 features, but he could only think of her faithful 
 eyes, the beauty of her honest smile, the promise 
 of her mouth, with the deep hollow between the 
 lower lip and the dimpled hillock of her chin, 
 which is, they say, the truest indication of a 
 woman's capacity for real love, just as heavy 
 eyelids denote modesty, and thin nostrils delicacy 
 of the senses. 
 
 Some sympathy, some suLcle mental influence, 
 made Judith flush and look about her. Andrew 
 slipped around the comer of the house, to come 
 
r-v 
 
 196 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 behind hei in a few minutes rid of the day's 
 dust. He touched her gentlj'^ on the shoulder. 
 She started, yet laughed. " I knew you were 
 coming," she said ; " I did not hear you, but I 
 was certain of it." 
 
 After tea, they three (for Judith felt shy of 
 Andrew to-night, and clung to Miss Myers, and 
 gently compelled her to step forth with them) 
 walked up and down the garden walKs. 
 
 The flowers, their fragrance freshened by 
 the dew, flung forth their odours royally. The 
 birds, revived by the coolness, were singing their 
 deferred songs. An oriole's liquid note was 
 answered from the lindens ; the robins were 
 flying aoout from tree to tree with happy confi- 
 dence ; some Phoebe birds were fluttering about 
 the porch ; sparrows were wrangling in the box; 
 a humming-bird was darting from bed to bed; 
 emerald-throated, ruby-crested, it vibrated from 
 flower to flower, itself like an animatec vagrant 
 blossom ; the swallows were darting in long, 
 graceful flights high in air, or soaring in slant- 
 ing circles over the barns, where their nests 
 were ; now and then, flying slowly homeward, a 
 crow crossed their vision, a shadow on the sky. 
 
 The heavy toads hopped lumberin^rly forth 
 from their hiding-places to search for slugs; a 
 tree toad gave its shrill call from a cedar tree. 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 197 
 
 Andrew had once shown Judith one, clinging like 
 a lichen to the bark, and of much the same 
 greyish-green colour. The crickets sang shrilly 
 and sweetly, like boy sopranos in a vestured 
 choir ; the frogs, in a far-off pond, added their 
 unfinished notes to Nature's vespers ; bats flew 
 silently and weirdly overhead. 
 
 "Do you know what the frogs say ? " asked 
 Andrew of Judith. 
 
 "No; what?" she asked, lookmg up so 
 eagerly, so trustingly, that a smile twitched the 
 comers of his mouth, even as he longed to 
 gather her in his arms. 
 
 "The little frogs with the shrill voices say, 
 ' Cut across ! cut across ! cut across ! * The wise 
 old frogs, the big ones, with the bass voices, say, 
 ' Go round ! go round ! go round ! ' " 
 
 Judith listened, her eyes big with interest. 
 "Why, so they do," she said, anH ^ooked at him 
 as at a wizard revealing a mystery. 
 
 Miss Myers laughed, her grimness tempered 
 by a tear. " Tell her about the rxiill-pond frogs, 
 Andrew," she said. 
 
 "Oh, well, the frogs in the mill-pond over 
 beyond Ovid, used to say, * Old Andy Anderson 
 is a thief ! Old Andy Anderson is a thief ! ' and 
 no one paid any attention; but after a while 
 people found out he was cheating them, i^o^ 
 
 

 
 4f Ha 
 
 m 
 
 198 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 giving them the proper weight of flour, and so 
 on, for their grists. Then they found the frogs 
 were telling the truth." 
 
 " Mr. Cutler," said Judith, " did people know 
 what the frogs said before they found out that 
 the miller stole ? " 
 
 " Well," admitted Andrew, laughing a little, 
 " I don't believe they did." 
 
 In the instance of the mill-pond frogs the 
 oracle was fitted to the event, as it has been in 
 other cases. 
 
 Later the dusk fell, and the moon slowly 
 soared aloft ; a midsummer moon, indescribably 
 lovely ; such a moon as is seen once in a life- 
 time — pale, perfect, lustrous as frosted silver, 
 white as unsmirched snow, seeming to be 
 embossed upon the sky. Such a moon haunted 
 Keats, inspired Shelley, whispered a suggestion 
 of kinship to Philip Sidney, and long, long ago, 
 shone upon the Avon. 
 
 And beneath this moon, intense as white 
 flame, pure as a snow crystal, Judith Moore and 
 Andrew Cutler began their v/alk to the farm- 
 house by the wood. Judith held her skirts 
 gathered up about her from the dew ; she was 
 bareheaded, her broad hat hanging on her ami. 
 
 They had to pass along a path deep shadowed 
 in trees. Judith started nervously at some I 
 
JIJJ)ITII MOOKE. 
 
 199 
 
 sound; that start vibrated to Andrew's heart. 
 He drew her arm within his, ana Judith walked 
 dreamily on, feeling secure against the world 
 and all its fears. They emerged into the moon- 
 light, and stopped where Andrew had constructed 
 a rude stile over the rail fence, for Judith's 
 convenience. Their eyes met in the moonlight, 
 each knew the hour had come, and the heart of 
 each leaped to its destiny. 
 
 •' Judith," said Andrew, very softly. 
 
 " Yes," she whispered. 
 
 " What is the sweetest time in all the world ?" 
 
 She paused a moment; then, as a flower bends 
 to the sun, as a flame follows the air, she swayed 
 slowly towards him. " Now," she breathed, her 
 heart in the word. 
 
 And the next moment she was in his arms ; 
 their lips had met. 
 
 From the shadows of the wood they had 
 passed came the silvery call of the cat-bird that 
 sings to the moon — and they two had drunk of 
 " life's great cup of wonder ; " only a sip perhaps, 
 but their mouths had touched the golden brim, 
 their lips had been dipped in its priceless nectar 
 I (the true nectar of the fabled gods!) and their 
 nostrils had known the sweets of its ineffable 
 [perfume. 
 
 So they stood, heart to heart. All that the 
 
 
200 
 
 JUDITH MOOUE. 
 
 '.1 
 
 ItmiSi 
 
 
 world comprehended for Andrew was now in 
 the circle of his arms. And Judith ? All her 
 world throbbed in Andrew's breast. 
 
 And for both there was no other universe 
 but the heaven of their mutual love, — a heaven 
 shut in and hedged about by two strong tender 
 arms; a heaven sustained by two hands that 
 fluttered pleadingly upon Andrew's breast. Not 
 strong hands these, but strong enough to hold 
 in siafe-keeping the treasure-trove of a good 
 man's love ! 
 
 And their talk ? Well, there are some sacred 
 old- fashioned words, tender words, such as our 
 fathers whispered to our mothers long ago, such 
 as their fathers, and their fathers' fathers, 
 wooed and won their wives with, such as their 
 wives whispered back with trembling lips— these 
 words passed between Andrew and Judith. We 
 all dream these words. Some few happy ones 
 hear them ; some brave true souls have spoken 
 them ; and from some of us even their echo has 
 departed, to be merged in unending silence. So 
 we will not write them here. 
 
 And at last they parted. Andrew strode 
 slowly homeward, his face glorified, Fl/oppinf[ 
 now and then to fancy he held her once more j 
 against his breast, feeling again the fragrance of 
 lier hair, hearing in the happy throbs of liis 
 
 ij 
 
li^ 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 201 
 
 heart her trembling words saying that she 
 loved him. 
 
 Loved himi ! The mystery and magic of its 
 meaning wrought into his heart, until it seemed 
 too small to hold its store of joy. He took off 
 his cap in the moonlight, and looked to the 
 heavens a voiceless aspiration to be worthy. 
 
 And well might Andrew Cutler bare his brow, 
 for there had been given into his hands the 
 holiest chalice man's lips know, the heart of a 
 good woman ! Well might Judith Moore, in a 
 burst of happy tears, vow vows to be worthy, 
 resolving to be better, stronger, nobler, for she 
 had been given that great gift for which, we are 
 told, thanks should be rendered, fasting — the 
 gift 01 a good man's love ! 
 
 " My dear Master, — After all, you seo I am 
 the one to write first, and I am afraid yo will 
 be very angry when you read my letter, h I 
 hope you will forgive me. I will tell you now, 
 at once, what it is, and while you read my 
 letter try to forget I am Judith Moore the opera 
 singer, and remember only that I am a woman 
 first and foremost. And a woman needs love, 
 and I have found it, and cannot bear to give it 
 up, as I must, if I come back to you — to the 
 |gtage. So, will you set me free ? Will you let 
 14 
 
 
202 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 :.']! 
 
 me stay here? Will you let me stop singiri'^ 
 and be forgotten ? I know how dreadful this 
 will seem to you, how ungrateful I will appear, 
 how ignoble to give up my art for what you 
 will call 'a passion'; but oh, dear master! you 
 ca i-not know all this is to me, this love. It is 
 everything, health, happiness, hope, all. And it 
 is not that I have forgotten your gifts ; indeed, 
 indeed, no. It is that I am so sure of your great 
 generosity, that I want you to be still more 
 generous; to add one more gift, the supreme 
 one. For in spite of what I've said it all rests 
 in your hands. I know what you have spent 
 on me, in money alone, besides your continual 
 thought for me. I know how patient you have 
 been, letting me save my voice till it was mature 
 and etrong. I know you will have horrible 
 forfeits to pay on the lease of the opera house, 
 and then all the chorus on your hands, and the 
 terrible advertising for this American season. 1 
 know the horrible fiasco it will seem to the 
 public, and how your jealous rivals will make 
 capital uut of the mythical prima donna who 
 did not materialize. But all this is the price of 
 a woman's whole life, the purchase money of a 
 life's happiness. Will you help pay it ? ^'^r I 
 will do what I can. There is the money you 
 gave me after the Contine ital season. It is 
 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 203 
 
 untouched ; take that. And there are my jewels 
 —all these gifts, you know — in the vault. I send 
 vou the order for those. And the man I love 
 may be richer yet, and I will say to him, * I owe 
 a dear friend a debt,' and you shall have, year 
 by year, all we can send. Does it not seem that 
 in time I might make it up ? And the artistic 
 disappointment you feel, oh, master! To lose 
 my art seems indeed a crucifixion to me, but in 
 that there is hope of resurrection. To lose my 
 love would be unending death. 
 
 " I know myself well now. I am a woman 
 full-grown within these last weeks, and even as 
 I write I know that I will have many bitter 
 regrets, many sad hours, thinking of my music ; 
 but what are these hours compared with an 
 unceasing pain such as will be mine if you 
 say no to my dream ? Of course, I know I am 
 bound to you by no contract ; but the confidence 
 you have shown in me binds me with a firmer 
 bond, and it you feel you cannot release me I 
 will do my best, my very best to realize your 
 hopes. You know I am honourable enough for 
 that. But one thing, dear master, I lay upon 
 you. If you come for me, taking me away from 
 my happiness, remember never to speak to me of 
 it, never refer to this letter, never tell me your 
 reasons for refusing the boon I crave from you 
 
204 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 1 m 
 
 i .-a! 
 
 1 - 
 
 1 
 
 •I 1 
 
 : i i:'U!Bili!8 
 
 on my knees. If I see you I shall know I have 
 asked too much, and that it has been denied me. 
 There is but one thing more. The man, my 
 man, is utterly ignorant of my monsy value. 
 He sees in me only a woman to love, take care 
 of, and work for. He does not know that I can 
 earn more in a week than he in years. He 
 realizes most keenly the beauty of music, but 
 he does not know what it brings in the markets 
 of the world. I would ask him to let me sing, 
 but 1 know well that such singing as mine 
 demands the consecration of all; when I sell 
 my voice, the body, the heart, the soul 
 goes with it, all subordinated to the voice. 
 That would not do. He has given all, he must 
 and shall have all in return, all I have to give, 
 or nothing. He knows me only as a woman 
 who came here for rest, quiet and health ; he 
 does not dream my name is billed about the 
 city on coloured posters, talked of as a common 
 possession by every one — does not know the 
 papers are full of my doings or intentions. So 
 you see it is myself he loves. And now, master, 
 this is good-bye. Good-bye to you and the old 
 life, which, before I knew any better, seemed the 
 best of all. I hope I may some time see you 
 again, but not till I can greet you without too 
 great joy in my release, without too keen pain 
 for my music. 
 
m 
 
 JUDITH MOOR?;:. 
 
 205 
 
 " Send me a line and tell me I am free, and 
 believe me, ever and ever, Judith Moore, your 
 own grateful little girl. 
 
 " P.S. — I have said nothing of my gratitude to 
 you, but this letter means that or nothing. 
 Means that I am so sensible of what I owe to 
 you that I will give up ray very life showing 
 you that I do not forget your long-continued 
 kindness. J. M." 
 
 This was the letter the post took away from 
 Ovid next morning, a letter written not without 
 tears. 
 
 After the music of the gods has once been 
 breathed through a Pipe, it is never quite con- 
 tent to echo common sounds, not even ii its 
 heart be given back to it, and it be born again a 
 growing reed among its fellows; even if it echoes 
 back the soughing of the summer wind, and is 
 never torn by the tempest; even if it grows 
 continually in the sunshine, and never bends its 
 head beneath the blast ; even if it be crowned 
 with brown tassels, and all men call it beautiful. 
 It still has the hungry longing, the dissatisfied 
 yearning, the pain that comes of remembered 
 greatness, even if that greatness was bought at 
 bitter cost. The true gods may well 
 
 *' Sigh for the cost and pain, 
 For the reed which grows never more again 
 As a reed with the reeds in the river." 
 
206 
 
 JUDITH MooRfi. 
 
 For that pain is poignant, and perhaps more of 
 us endure it than is imagined. It may be, these 
 inexplicable yearnings of our souls for some 
 vague good, these bitter times when not even 
 life seems sweet, these regrets for what we have 
 not known, for what we think we have never 
 been, for what is not, these may be dim memories 
 from ages back, from the times when the voices 
 of the gods spake through men, and men gave 
 heed to them, and, unmindful of their own 
 personal pain, proclaimed to man the messages 
 of the gods. And though this birthright brings 
 pain with it, yet we, growing like other reeds, 
 and proud as they of our brown tassels, or 
 sorrowing, like them, for our lack, are proud also 
 to know that of our kind the gods chose their 
 instruments for the making known of their 
 music to men. The yearning for the divine 
 breath may be better borne than the cruel 
 afflatus it imparts, and yet we are glad that 
 once we were not unworthy to be so tried, and 
 not all rejoiced that the keener pain, the 
 higher honour, is taken from us. 
 
 Sometimes before a great storm an illusive 
 hush holds sway, a perilous peace falls upon 
 the face of nature. With it, a mysterious light 
 iiTadiates the sky ; a solemn sunshine, prophetic 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 207 
 
 of after rains, the forerunner of tempest — a 
 luminous warning of wrath to come. In some 
 such fashion surely the face of the angel shone 
 when he, as the writers of takj tell us, drove our 
 parents out of Paradise. 
 
 It was this illusory illumination that gilded 
 the lives of Judith Moore and Andrew Cutler at 
 th's time. How few of us read the rain behind 
 the radiance ! 
 
 They were both happy. As a parched plant 
 vibrates in all its leaves, stirs and quickens 
 when given water that means life to it, so 
 Judith Moore's whole being trembled beneath 
 its baptism of love. For she seems to have 
 had no doubt that her manager — her " master," 
 as she lovingly called him — would grant her 
 request. Already her past life, with all its 
 \Tork, and waiting, and triumph, seemed but 
 a dim dream, her present hope the only reality. 
 She ran about the Morris house so lightly that 
 it seemed to Mrs. Morris she heard the patter 
 of children's feet, the sweetest sound that ever 
 wove itself into this simple woman's dreams. 
 
 Judith's heart v» as ever across the fields with 
 her lover, and she " sang his name instead of 
 a song," and found it surpassing sweet. And 
 Andrew's heart and head were both busy with 
 loving plans for Judith. 
 
 I ■ 
 
 it- 
 
 
 : 
 
 
 11 
 
208 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 The Muskoka woods might go, and their green 
 mosses be torn for minerals ! No more long, 
 lonely hunts for him ! He must reap golden 
 harvests wherever he might for Judith, now, 
 He knew all her insufficiencies as a housewife, 
 which poor Judith felt very humble in confess- 
 ing; and it gave Andrew great joy, in a modest 
 way, that he would be able to let her be quite 
 free of them. 
 
 And he had higher dreams. Politics offers 
 a wide arena for ambition. Its sands may have 
 been soiled by the blood of victims, trodden by 
 the feet of hirelings, defiled by the struggles of 
 mercenaries; but there are yet some godlike 
 gladiators left, who war for right ; there are yet 
 noble strifes, and few to fight them ; and Andrew, 
 in whose heart patriotism was as a flaming fire, 
 recolved to dedicate himself for the fray. To 
 win glory for Judith, to do something to savour 
 his life that it might be worthy of her accept- 
 ance, that it might leave some fragrance upon 
 the tender hands that held it — that was his aim, 
 and he felt he would not fail. 
 
 No inherent force can be very great and not 
 give its possessor a thxiU of power. Andrew 
 felt within him that which meant mastery of 
 men. And in spite of difficulties and obstacles, 
 Andrew at last won the wreath to which he had 
 aspired in the first flush of his hope and joy. 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 209 
 
 But that was after. 
 
 One day, a week after Judith had sent the 
 letter, a group of Ovidians were in Hiram Green's 
 store. There vvas old Sam Symmons, Jack Mac- 
 kinnon, Oscar Randall (who, together with h*s 
 hopes of political preferment, aspired to the hand 
 of Sam Symmons' Suse), and Bill Aikins. The 
 latter would " catch it," as he well knew, when 
 he got home, for loitering in the store, and there- 
 fore, with some vague thought of palliating his 
 offence, forbore to make himself comfortable, 
 but stood uneasily by the door, jostled by each 
 person who came in, pushed by each who went 
 out. 
 
 Jack Mackinnon was speaking, his thin dark 
 face wreathed in smiles. 
 
 "How d'ye like the blind horse, Mr. Sypi- 
 mons ? I tell ye blind horses are smart some- 
 times! There was one Frank Peters, wot I 
 worked for in Essex, owned, and he never 
 would eat black oats. Critters has their likes 
 and dislikes same as people. I once knowed a' 
 clog— but that blind horse — well, he'd never eat 
 black oats when he had his sight — went blind 
 along of drawing heavy loads — doctored him all 
 winter — t'wasn't any use, sight gone, gone com- 
 plete—well, as I said, he wouldn't eat black oats 
 
 i 4 ■ 
 
 4 'C 
 
210 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 when he had his sight, and wlien the horse was 
 blind, sir, he knowed the difference between 
 biac'r oats and wliitu, yes, just the same as 
 when he had his sight. You couldn't timpt that 
 horse tc eat black oats, then or no time, he 
 wouldn't so much as nose at 'em, no sir. You 
 couldn't fool that horse on oats. But pshaw! 
 blind horses ! why Henry Acres wot I worked 
 for in Essex — " 
 
 " Oh, shut up. Jack ! " said Hiram, and Jack 
 accepted his quietus good - naturedly, quite 
 unabashed. 
 
 The village arithmetician had once taken the 
 trouble to calculate how long Jack Mackinnon 
 must have worked in Essex, deducing the 
 amount from Jack's account of the number of 
 years he had worked for different people there. 
 The result showed Jack must have spent some 
 hundred and sixty years in Essex if all his tales 
 were true; and Jack always repudiated with 
 scorn any question of his veracity, hoping, with 
 great fervour and solemnity, that he "drop 
 down dead in his tracks " if he was lying, a 
 judgment which never overtook him. 
 
 The talk turned upon politics, as it always 
 did if Oscar Randall was there, and old Sam 
 Symmons was soon holding forth. 
 
 " Yes," he said, " yes, the old elections were 
 
 i! 
 
JUDITH MOOtlE. 
 
 211 
 
 wont to be rare times. I do remember at one 
 election, near the close of the polls, beguiling 
 Ezra Thompson to a barn, and there two of us 
 held him, by main strength and bodily force, till 
 the polls were closed. Truly he was an angry and 
 profane man wiien we set him free" — here came 
 a reminiscent chuckle, cut short to answer Oscar 
 Randall's tentative question. 
 
 " Trouble ? Get us into trouble ? Yes, of a 
 private kind. Ezra Thompson and I fought 
 that question with our fists some seventeen 
 times, and the lad with me had much the same 
 number of bouts over it. But we neitlier of us 
 begrudged him satisfaction. In those days a 
 man took satisfaction out of his enemy's skin ; 
 he didn't sneak away to lawyers to bleed him in 
 his pocket. No, no. 
 
 " Yes, 'twere a great election that ! 'Twas the 
 time Mr. Brown ran against Mr. Salmon. Now, 
 it was told of Mr. Salmon, that though of good 
 presence, and very high and mighty towards his 
 neighbours, yet he was ignorant ; and when his 
 election came on, it was told of him how he met 
 an English gentleman on the train once, who, 
 wishing to learn of Canada, spoke at length 
 with Mr. Salmon, and in the course of the talk 
 (during which Mr. Salmon was much puffed up), 
 the English gentleman said to him : * And have 
 
 .W 
 >i'^\ 
 
 
212 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 I 
 
 4--:-M 
 
 you many reptiles in Canada ? * ' No/ said Mr. 
 Salmon (and a pompous man he was, very)— 
 • No, we have very few reptiles, only a few 
 foxes.* It was Mr. Salmon, too, who once 
 refused when he was J. P. to look into the case 
 of a poor man whose horse's leg had been 
 broken in a bad culvert. And the man cried in 
 a gust of rage : * What ! did you not swear to 
 see justice done ? and now you won't consider 
 this ? ' * Swear,' said Mr. Salmon, * I did no such 
 thing. I only took my affidavit.' " Old Sam's 
 voice ^ied away. 
 
 Hiram spoke from behind the counter. " The 
 roadmasters do bring the country into terrible 
 expenses. Look at the bill of costs that's been 
 run up in that case at Jamestown." 
 
 " Yes," said Oscar Randall, as one having 
 authority, "the people's money is wasted in 
 this country with an awful disregard of the 
 public welfare." 
 
 " You're right there, Os." " Now you bet your 
 head's level." " Don't you mistake yourself, it's 
 level ! " "I tell you, you just hit the nail on the 
 head that time I " 
 
 When this chorus subsided, Mr. Home, who 
 had just entered, said : 
 
 "What do you think of that concession, Os.out 
 back of Braddon's ? " 
 
 iiii' 'm 
 
 R' ' ml 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 213 
 
 "There is no doubt," said Oscar, promptly, 
 •' but that is a question which must be adjusted. 
 It is such internal disputes as these which 
 weaken and destroy the unity of the country, 
 and lay us open to an unexpected attack from 
 the States, which we, by reason of disunion and 
 strife, would be unable to cope with." 
 
 The house, composed of Hiram on his sugar 
 barrel, Sam in the one chair. Jack Mackinnon 
 on a cracker box, and a row of men braced 
 against the counters on each side, fairly rose at 
 this. Clearly Oscar Randall had the makings 
 of a great speaker in him ! 
 
 But Mr. Home was a man of slow mental 
 methods, who always decided one point before 
 he left it for another. He waited till the chorus 
 of "That's so ; that's the ticket," " Bet your life; 
 that's the way to talk," " Let 'em try it; we'd be 
 ready for 'em " (this last from Jack Mackinnon 
 who was a volunteer) had died away, when he 
 said: 
 
 "That's right, Os; you're right there, right 
 enough ; but what do you think — ought it to be 
 closed or should it be opened ? " 
 
 " I think," said Oscar, slowly, and with confi- 
 dential emphasis — " I think, as every patriotic 
 and honest man thinks, that the rights of the 
 people must be preserved." 
 
 I 
 
 3» 
 
214 
 
 JUniTFf MOORE. 
 
 A diverHion occurred here. A shout from the 
 roadway took them all out. Before the door 
 stood a carriage with a little black-a-viae<l man 
 in it ; and behind that, an express waggon, be- 
 side the driver of which sat a perky-locking^ 
 woman, different from anything ever seen in 
 Ovid, for French maids of the real Parisian 
 stripe were not apt to visit this village often. 
 
 " The way to old man Morris' ? yes," said 
 Oscar Randall, and proceeded to give minute 
 directions. 
 
 The little cavalcade started again, the gen- 
 tleman leaning back in the carriage, murmuring 
 to himself : 
 
 "Now, I wonder which of these specimens 
 he was." 
 
 And at that moment Andrew Cutler and 
 Judith Moore were taking farewell, for a few 
 hours as they thought, beneath the shadows of 
 Andrew's chestnut trees. 
 
 " Darling," he whispered, holding her gently 
 to him, " my arms seem always aching for you 
 w^hen we are parted; my heart cries for you 
 continually. Judith, dear little girl, you won't 
 make me wait too long ? " 
 
 She clung to him silently, hiding her face ou 
 his arm. A tremour shook her; after all he 
 
JUDITH MOORK. 
 
 215 
 
 rive minute 
 
 was a man, the dominant creature of tlie world. 
 True, he trembled at her voice and touch now — 
 but then, after? 
 
 "AuoKw," Mho whispered, "will you be good 
 to me i " 
 
 "Trust me, dear, and see," he whispered back. 
 
 " You know I have no one but myself," she 
 said, putting back her head and looking at him 
 with pale cheeks and tear-filled eyes. " If you 
 are cruel to me or harsh to me ; if you make 
 love a burden, not a boon, I will have no one to 
 turn to. I — " she stopped with quivering lips. 
 
 " My own girl," he said, " trust me. I know 
 I am rough compared to you, but I will be 
 tender. I know my man's ways frighten you, 
 but it shall be all my thought to make you 
 trust me. Give me your presence always, that's 
 all I ask — to see you, feel you near, hear you 
 about the house, have your farewells when I 
 go away, you/ welcome when I return, your 
 encouragement in what I undertake, your sym- 
 pathy in what I do. That means heaven to me, 
 but only when you are happy in it. Dearest, 
 you don't think I would be bad to you ? " 
 
 And Judith, in a storm of sobs that seemed to 
 melt away all the icy doubts and fears that had 
 assailed her, laid her head upon his breast, and 
 promised that soon, very soon, she would go to 
 
 
 k ■ 
 
•lff^," 
 
 216 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 the house on the hill never to leave it; and, 
 when she had grown calmer with a deeper 
 peace than she hd,d yet known, he left her^ 
 there, in the shadow of the trees — to return in 
 a few hours. 
 
 And Judith stole into the kitchen door and 
 up to her room, to find her French maid packing 
 her trunks and be told that " Monsieur awaited 
 her in the salon** 
 
 Her vow had been required of her — that was 
 all she could think, and she prepared herself to 
 keep it. 
 
 The manager was clever and adroit in his way. 
 He kept Mrs. Morris busy with him, so that 
 she did not see Judith till she entered to say 
 she was ready; and then, as Mrs. Morris told 
 afterward, she got a "turn." For the Judith 
 who came to say "good-bye," was the saruc 
 Judith who greet/cd her at first, gracefully 
 languid, pale, self-composed, and somewhat 
 artificially, if charmingly, courteous. 
 
 " There was some difference," Mrs. Morris said, 
 " but I can't just say what." 
 
 The difference was that Judith had come a 
 girl, and left a woman. 
 
 So for the last time Judith crossed the little 
 garden, feeling strangely unfamiliar with the 
 homely flowers she passed. In the meantime 
 
w 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 217 
 
 had come a 
 
 the drivers of the conveyances hau conferred 
 with Mr. Morris, and the shorter road they took 
 to the railway station was directly away from 
 the village, away from the house on the hill. 
 
 They caught a glimpse of it as they turned 
 a comer, and suddenly Judith seemed to feel 
 the scent of white lilies, and hear an even- 
 ing chorus of nature's composition. Her hand 
 held tightly a little envelope, in which she had 
 hurriedly slipped something before she left her 
 room. 
 
 She was thinking how she could drop it 
 unobserved, when from the shadow of some 
 wild plum trees there issued a disreputable 
 Jog — Nip — with Tommy Slick behind him, a 
 hasket of wild plums in his hand. 
 
 She interrupted the manager's flow of news 
 to say — 
 
 " Do stop the man a minute, I want to speak 
 to that boy." 
 
 " I'll call him." 
 
 " No, no ; I'll get out," she said. 
 
 So without more ado he stopped the carriage ; 
 the whims of a prima donna must needs be 
 respected. 
 
 She got out and ran back to Tommy, who 
 greeted her with a grin. 
 
 " Tommy," she said, " you like me, don't you ? 
 
 15 
 
218 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 And you like Andrew Cutler ? Now, will you 
 do somethingr for me that no one else in the 
 world can do ? " 
 
 " I'll do it," said Tommy, with business-like 
 brevity. 
 
 " And you will not br*. %the it to any living 
 soul ? " 
 
 " I kin keep my mouth shut," said Tommy. 
 " Often had to." 
 
 "Then," said Judith, "I'll trust you. Give 
 this to Andrew Cutler; if you run you will 
 catch him in his chestnut woods. Try to get 
 there quickly, and meet him before he gets near 
 Morris*. Give him this, and say: 'She has 
 gone away ! she sends all her love and this.' " 
 
 Tommy's impish face had a look of concern 
 beyond his years. Tears were running down 
 Judith's face. 
 
 " Say, be you never coming back ? " 
 
 " Never, never, Tommy ! " said Judith. " Good- 
 bye." 
 
 So in due time Andrew Cutler received from 
 Tommy Slick's fruit-stained hand an envelope 
 containing one long bright lock of hair, and a 
 message sent with it ; and was told also of the 
 few other words that passed, and of Judith's tears 
 And Tommy having delivered his message, and 
 §eei^ the look on Andrew's face, dug his knuqkles 
 
JUDITH MOORE, 
 
 219 
 
 into his eyes, and with a veritable howl of grief 
 fled away back as he had come ; and Andrew 
 suddenly looked about and found life emptied 
 of all joy. 
 
 Judith sf^emed so very calm as the weeks 
 went by, that her manager told himself he had 
 been a fool to worry so that night — after he 
 returned her letter to the post-office, and decided 
 to go and fetch her from Ovid. He had sent it 
 back, so that if she had refused to come, or — 
 yes ! he had thought of that, being so imbued 
 with stage ways — if she had hinted at killing 
 herself, he might declare with clean hands 
 that he was guiltless, that he had never had 
 her letter, that some one else had got it and 
 sent it back to the Dead Letter office. But, 
 after all, how foolish he was, he thought, 
 watching Judith smile, and reply prettily 
 to the courtesies of some guests whom he had 
 just introduced to her. But then, her letter 
 had seemed full of meaning ! Well, that letter 
 was doubtless a manifestation of the stage-cre ft 
 with which she was thoroughly saturated ! So 
 he comforted himself. And meanwhile, Judith 
 was learning that " Face joy's a costly mask to 
 wear," and asking wearily of each day that 
 dawned, "Is not my destiny complete? Have 
 I not lived ? Have I nA)t loved J What more ? " 
 
 And the time for her American d4but drew on. 
 
 •I 
 
 
I-I 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 *' Glory itself can be, for a woman, only a loud and 
 bitter cry for happmess." — Madame de Stad. 
 
 j>t,.- '. 1: !•- 
 
 Judith Mocre made a triumphant success of 
 her first American season. 
 
 She was lauded to the skies. An ocean of 
 praise was poured in libations before her; its 
 ripples spread across the Atlantic, to break in 
 an ominous wave at Patti's feet, and Patti 
 seeing it, perhaps feeling the chill of its en- 
 croachment, determined immediately upon 
 another American tour. 
 
 There is a picture of Judith Moore painted at 
 this time by one of the deftest masters of facial 
 portraiture. Sittings were given for this whilst 
 past applause was echoing in her ears, with 
 newer shoutt awaiting her in an hour or two; 
 but the woman pictured upon this canvas is 
 neither hearkening to past applause, nor antici- 
 pating new honour. She is absorbed in the 
 dream of some sweet past, silent in the face of 
 sonie uni^hieved joy, the whole ff^ce illumined 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 221 
 
 by an after-glow from some light of other days 
 —a first radiance of a morn that never breaks. 
 It shows a woman with wide, wistful, grey eyes 
 —eyes which had wept, and lips that denied and 
 defied the tears, a brow whereon triumph and 
 grief had warred for mastery and merged at 
 length into patient endurance ; but the head is 
 proudly poised, as a head should be that bears 
 a crown. Even a thorny one confers and demands 
 honour. If this woman bore a cross, she did not 
 flaunt it in the face of men ; she bore it hidden 
 in her heart, and drew it out in secret places to 
 wash her heart s blood from it with her tears. 
 Tears are the salt of love that savour it to time 
 everlasting. 
 
 It was the fashion to say that Miss Moore 
 dwelt upon the heights to which her genius of 
 song raised her, that from the peaks of success she 
 looked down contemptuously upon all beneath. 
 Alas ! They could not tell how icy these pin- 
 nacles were! The roseate glow cast upon the 
 " eternal snows " may look very beautiful, but 
 the humblest hearth where love lights the fire 
 is warmer. 
 
 She felt, indeed, the exaltation of genius, but 
 upon every side she looked forth into the void. 
 She was possessed again by that agony of 
 vertigo that had seized her among the apple 
 
 ■■:i 
 
«■ 
 
 222 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 ■':4 
 
 Mi 
 
 blooms ; now, as then, she stood among blos- 
 soms ; now, as then, her heart sickened within 
 her. But there was one deadly difference ; there 
 was no strong arm to take her down. Indeed, it 
 seemed to her even the ladder was eone. Could 
 any man forgive the perfidy of which she had 
 been guilty ? Many a hand was outstretched to 
 her, some that would have soiled her own had 
 she clasped them, others she might have met 
 honestly, palm to palm. She brushed gently 
 past them all; if some of them tugged at her 
 skirts, it only gave her some discomfort and 
 pity for their pleading, but no pain. 
 
 Her manager was most enthusiastic over her. 
 He remembered guiltily a letter he had opened 
 and rcLd, a letter he sent back to the post-office 
 with apologies — ^"he was sorry, the letter was 
 not for him" — a letter which even now was 
 slowly threading its way back through the 
 Dead Letter office pigeon-holes to an undreamed 
 destination. 
 
 He was working her too hard, though— so 
 musical people whispered among themselves. 
 She had always needed the curb and not the 
 spur. Of course, it was a great thing to get 
 such a hold upon the public in one's first aeason, 
 with the sure knowledge that she would have 
 to bid against Patti in her next one ; still, all 
 
mr 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 228 
 
 these encores, and Sunday concerts and extra 
 musicales were felt to be too much. And one 
 or two men, whose souls were sensitive, ceased 
 going to hear Miss Moore. There was some- 
 thing of agony, personal agony, mingling with 
 the passion of her voice. One of these men 
 shuddered, when some one, using a hackneyed 
 simile, spoke of her as a human nightingale. 
 There came to his fanciful imagination the old 
 myth of the nightingale that sings with her 
 breast against a thorn. It seemed somehow to 
 hini that this woman had grown delirate with 
 the pain, and pressed sorer and sorer upon her 
 thorn. He thought, too, of the birds whose eyes 
 they blind that they may sing better; of the 
 dove that bears 
 
 . ' . . "thro* heaven a tale of woe, 
 Some dolorous message knit below 
 The wild pulsation of her wings. " 
 
 He thought of the swan's song of death, and 
 of the reed that the " Great God Pan" wrenched 
 from its river home to fashion forth a Pipe- 
 The American papers laughed a good deal at 
 this man, caricaturing him as the poet of soulful 
 lilies and yearning souls, hinting that he would 
 like to inaugurate a pre-Raphaelesque era in 
 America d la Burne Jones. He read these 
 
 M 
 
 i ' » 
 
224 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 things sometimes. They flushed his thin cheeks, 
 but did not trouble his eyes — those eyes that 
 mirrored forth the soul of the mystic. He was 
 right about Judith Moore. 
 
 She bowed her head to accept the last acco- 
 lade of Genius — grief. She had partaken of 
 pain — that chrism which, laid upon poetic lips, 
 sanctifies their words to immortality, but which 
 savours the breath they breathe with the bitter- 
 ness of death. Byron, Shelley, Keats, Rossetti 
 (how many we might name !) have partaken of 
 that sacrament. But what matter for the Pipe, 
 so that the world, when it has time to listen, 
 may hear sweet singing? The world, in its 
 way, was very good to Judith Moore. It gave 
 her the sweet smile of its approval right royally; 
 it gave her all its luxuries, all its praise, and 
 this Judith did not pretend not to enjoy. But 
 she enjoyed it as one does who drinks what he 
 knows will kill him, yet continues the draught, 
 that in its intoxication he may forget the doom 
 it brings. 
 
 Judith was seen everywhere, for she availed 
 herself of all the privileges which her genius, her 
 beauty, her untarnished fame won for her. She 
 was pointed out wherever she went ; sometimes 
 when a crush of carriages held her own impris- 
 oned, she would hear a whisper from lip to lip, 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 225 
 
 "Look! look! There is Judith Moore." Nothing 
 further was needed ; every one knew Judith 
 Moore. And Judith treated the world as it 
 deserved of her. She dressed herself beauti- 
 fully for it, and smiled and sang to it, and 
 exhibited herself to it everywhere. Everywhere, 
 for she was striving to so tire her spirit that 
 when she was alone it might at least be numb, 
 if not at rest. In vain ! That ardent, tender 
 spirit was yet indomitable. The body, the slen- 
 der, beautiful body it animated, might be sore 
 aweary, but so soon as Judith was alone her 
 spirit fled far away, back to the place of its 
 rejoicing; back to the village in the valley, 
 where it was always spring or summertide; 
 back to the old rail fences with the tangled 
 weeds about them; back to the apple blooms; 
 back to the brown furrows where the grey 
 birds nested; back to the lindens and the 
 chestnuts, and there, hour after hour, her spirit 
 held voiceless commune with that other. Her 
 spirit well might be comforted, but Judith 
 strained listening ears to hear one tender word, 
 wearied her eyes searching for the semblance of 
 a tace, stretched forth trembling hands for 
 comfort, and, overcome at last, let them fall, 
 empty. 
 The opera season closed, and an incident that 
 
226 
 
 JUDITH MOOKE. 
 
 made some talk put the period to Judith's first 
 American season. Judith had sung as she never 
 sang before. Her voice seemed to transcend 
 the limits of human capability, and become 
 something independent of her lips, something 
 sentient, springing ever higher and higher. 
 
 The man in whose heart she was likened to 
 the pierced nightingale, the blinded lark, the 
 mourning dove, the dying swan, had come to 
 listen to her. At her last appearance there was 
 a roar of applause, a wave of laudation that 
 seemed as if it might carry her off' her feet. 
 There is something thrilling, inspiring, almost 
 weird in the union of human voices, something 
 that stirs the imagination, something that never 
 grows old to us, for it never becomes famiHar. 
 Usually they jar and jangle across each other as 
 children babble, each fretting for his own toy, 
 so that we almost forget what the power of 
 union is. In praise or blame it makes the world 
 tremble. 
 
 She made no pretence of retiring for the 
 encore. She made no sign to the musicians. 
 She did not assume the pose, familiar to them, 
 for any of her songs. They sat silent, spell- 
 bound with the audience. She stepped slowly 
 forward, stretched forth her arms, and sang 
 unaccompanied, what seemed an invocation to 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 227 
 
 the better Ego of every soul present, a song she 
 had been wont to sing to Andrew : 
 
 " Out from youFHclf ! 
 Out from the past with its wrecks and contrition, 
 Out from the dull discontentment of now, 
 Out from the future's false-speaking ambition, 
 
 Out from yourself ! 
 For your broken heart's rest ; 
 For the peace which you crave ; 
 For the end of your quest ; 
 For the love which can save ; 
 
 Come ! Come to me I " 
 
 Those who heard that song never forgot it- 
 And one man, at least, never forgot the ex- 
 pression upon the woman's face as she sang. 
 Rapt as of a sibyl who conjures away an 
 evil spirit ; winning as a woman who promises 
 all things ; informed with the intensity of one 
 who bids her will go forth to accomplish her 
 desire — she held her last pose a moment. The 
 house "rose at her." Even as they cheered a 
 change overspread her face. It grew glorified, 
 exultant, tremulously eager, as of one who feels 
 the pinions of his soul stirring for flight — for 
 flight to longed-for shores. With that look 
 upon her face she fell. 
 
 *'■ • • • • • • • • 
 
 Far away from New York, in the silent 
 
 t 
 
 Vi 
 
 k 
 
228 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 f 
 
 spaces of a virgin forest, a man was lying on the 
 snow, his gun beneath his ami ready for use. 
 But he was keeping no lookout for game. His 
 eyes were fixed upon an open space amid the 
 tree tops, where a solitary star twinkled deso- 
 lately. His face was thin; his eyes burned; 
 the snows, the silence, nor the solitude could 
 calm that throbbing at his heart, could cool 
 the fever in his veins. He thought of Judith, 
 and, thinking of her, loved her. It was true 
 she had left him, left him with his kisses warm 
 upon her lips, but — he loved her. It was hard 
 for him to imagine a force strong enough to 
 constrain her to go. It was difficult, having no 
 clue, to conceive of circumstances that would 
 justify her silent desertion, but somehow 
 Andrew, out of the depths of his steadfast heart, 
 found excuses for her. Sometimes the fantastic 
 thought that she was bound in loveless marriage 
 came to him, but he put it by. He remembered 
 her eyes, the misgivings that had assailed her, 
 the tender abandon of her trust in him. No, 
 she was not married. Where was she ? It was 
 not her wish that he should know. He hoped 
 her little feet trod pleasant paths. Oh, Judith, 
 Judith ! Then, explain it as we may, or leave 
 it still a mystery, there came to him, faint, aery, 
 bodilessly, the words of a song — a song that 
 
 
JUDITH M(K)RE. 
 
 229 
 
 ended in a plea, " Come ! Come to me," and when 
 it died away, Andrew Cutler sprang to his feet 
 with a cry that echoed far between the icy tree 
 trunks of the forest, " I come, I come." And 
 that same night, at the same hour, at the same 
 p'llse of the hour, Judith Moore, with a look of 
 ineffable joy upon her face, fell fainting upon 
 the stage. 
 
 "So may love, although 'tis understood 
 The mere commingling of passionate breath, 
 Produce more than our searching witnesseth." 
 
 Next day Andrew started back to Ovid, 
 arriving in a state of feverish expectancy. No 
 tidings of Judith there ; and he knew not where 
 to seek. That pleading voice still rang in his 
 CLTs ; by night, by day, it urged the message it 
 had brought to him in the depths of far-off 
 Muskoka, and by day and night he promised it 
 peace, if he could only, only know where to go. 
 
 Time passed. 
 
 The voice was dumb now. Only an acme of 
 surpassing love can wing the will through space, 
 and then only perhaps once in a lifetime does 
 such a supreme moment come, and the will 
 behind this love was shattered, for Judith Moore 
 la^ sicH Uftto i^eath, was tossing in the deliriuiq 
 
 .r 
 
230 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 I' '1 
 
 i 
 
 of fever, or lying for days sunk in an apathy 
 which words could not pierce. The papers were 
 filled with accounts of her strange illness, daily 
 bulletins of her condition appeared, her manager 
 was showered with opprobrium for overworking 
 her. She was dying. The best doctors said 
 that the miracle was that she had lasted so long. 
 Her little dark-faced manager went about feel- 
 ing like a murderer, a Shylock, and a Judas, in 
 one. The more so, as he felt ho had given ner 
 the death-blow in one stroke — when he disre- 
 garded that letter. If he had only overworked 
 her, he told himself he would have had no 
 regrets. He would have made any reparation 
 he could, but how on earth was he to find the 
 yokel she was in love with ? And what a battle 
 she was having ; and yet it was not such a very 
 long one — from latest winter to spring. 
 
 Andrew was half crazed with love, which, 
 since that winter night, had V)ecome almost 
 unendurable through anxiety. 
 
 Now it was spring, u,nd as he walked through 
 his woods to the Morris house, he passed the 
 crab-apple-trees in full bloom. He often went 
 up to talk to garrulou > Mrs. Morris. The little 
 details she let fall about Judith were pearls of 
 great price to him. 
 
 This day he was hardly within the door 
 before Mrs. Morqs said : 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 231 
 
 " Land sakes ! but you're just the very person 
 I was wanting to see. There's a gov'iment 
 letter come to Miss Moore yesterday, and I 
 thought you'd maybe know where to send it." 
 
 " Yes," said Andrew, feeling that the sign had 
 come at last. " Give it me, and I'll see she 
 gets it." 
 
 He took it, and with scarce a word went away, 
 leaving Mrs. Morris considerably upset by his 
 abruptness. 
 
 He only waited to get within the shadow of 
 his woods before he tore it open. One reading 
 of her pleading letter to her manager sufficed. 
 Judith was his again. He knew where to find 
 her. New York ! — that was not so very far off. 
 He knew when the trains started, and rapidly 
 made his plans. She was such a child ! and she 
 liked his old velveteen coat and the big, battered 
 felt hat ; he would wear them ; she would be 
 pleased ; and as he came within sight of the 
 crab-apple-trees a happy thought came to him. 
 He took his knife and cut a huge bundle of 
 flowers, taking off the branches where the 
 flowers were only in bud. 
 Theii he went home. 
 
 His aunt heard his hurried explanation, and 
 bound a groat roll of wet moss about i\\Q ends 
 of t^e branches. 
 
232 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 " They'll look queer, Andrew," she said. 
 
 " Never mind how they'll look," said Andrew, 
 happily ; " she'll like *em." 
 
 He was soon on the train, a picturesque figure 
 in tweed, with an old velveteen coat, a wide 
 shabby felt hat, and an enormous bunch of pink 
 flowers. Andrew was entirely oblivious of, and 
 indifferent to, comment. He got hold of a train- 
 man, gave him a dollar and got a pailful of water 
 from him, arran;.>ed 'is flowers in it, put it in 
 the baggage-car and sat by it all night. "A 
 queer duck," the trainmen said. 
 
 As the Canadian trains reach New York, the 
 morning papers come aboard. Andrew bought 
 one of each, and sat down turning them over 
 with tremulous hands to search for a sign. He 
 had not far to seek — " Judith Moore dying, 
 THE END APPROACHING." That was what he 
 read in big "scare head" type; that, and its 
 narrations in the other j u>ers, with the usual 
 platitudes telling of Iht phort but bright 
 career," and so on. With Ci^ calm of despair 
 he searched for definite information as to where 
 she was. It seemed every one knew so well 
 that definite detail was superfluous. But at 
 last, in a different part of the paper, he found: 
 " In the corridors of the Brittany Hotel last 
 jiight, Miss Moore's manager, who had just left 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 233 
 
 tJ A 
 
 her bedside, said all liope was gone." The train 
 was in New York, slowing up in tlie Grand 
 Central station by the time he found this. He 
 wrapped a couple of handkerchiefs round the 
 steins of his flowers, got into the first carriage 
 lie came to, saying only " the Brittany Hotel." 
 He thought the cabman might know where to 
 go. The cabman, of course, did, and ere many 
 minutes he was in the office of the magnificent 
 hotel. 
 
 He knew nothing of conventional procedure, 
 and if he liad, it would not have mattered to 
 him then. He went straight to the desk. 
 
 " Is Miss Moore alive ? " he asked. 
 
 " Yes, I think so, but — " 
 
 " I want io go to her at once." 
 
 The clerk comprehended, and a bell-boy raced 
 before Andrew to a door whose handle was 
 muffled. He knocked very softly. " Go," said 
 Andrew, and he stood alone waiting for the door 
 to open. It would be impious to speak of the 
 agony which knit his soul and heart to endur- 
 ance, whilst he waited the word from within. 
 
 The door opened. A miserable little man 
 stood there. When he saw Andrew, he said 
 without astonishment : 
 
 " You're in time to speak to her. Go in." 
 
 Andrew advanced to an open door. The 
 16 
 
 ■f 
 'ill' ■ 
 
 m 
 
 { - 
 
M 
 
 234 
 
 JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 h 
 
 little man followed through the outer room. 
 He beckoned to two others within the sick- 
 room, a white-capped woman and a doctor. 
 They saw, understood, and Andrew went up to 
 the bed alone with the door closed behind him. 
 "Judith," he said, "my own little girl." 
 A long tremour shook the slight form under 
 the coverlets, and then — then he was on his knees 
 with the flowers flung all across the bed and his 
 arms about her. And Judith ? Poor Judith's 
 eyes were wide and frightened, for she thought 
 the change had come that she had waited for, 
 expected, even longed for ; she thought this was 
 Death, and even although the crab blooms were 
 there, and Andrew, still it was awesome. Yet 
 Death should have brought sv^ita flowers, not 
 apple blooms such as grew in Andrew's woods, 
 And were Death's arms ever so sustaining, so 
 tender, so warm as these ? And surely Death 
 did not come garbed in shabby, smoky velve- 
 teen, nor bend above his victims a brown 
 passionate face wet with tears ? 
 
 "Andrew, it's you, and you're crying," and 
 then followed a faint whisper of delight— from 
 her — for Andrew's courage and calm were gone 
 at last. He could not speak. And once more 
 she smiled at him the old womanly smile, from 
 the old honest eyes, and stretched forth feeble 
 fingers striving to reach about his neck. 
 
CHAPTER XI. 
 
 V ENVOI. 
 
 ' ' Fair love that led home. " 
 
 Judith Moore did not die. Slie had fallen 
 asleep that day with her fingers trembling about 
 Andrew's simlmrnt hair. He held her tenderly 
 till a deeper sleep weighted down those clinging 
 hands, and they fell 
 
 He watched by her, without movement, almost 
 without breathing, with the look on his face as 
 of one who battles with Death, pitting all the 
 splendid vitality of his being against the enemy, 
 casting the mantle of his brave soul, strong will 
 and perfect love about the trembling will and 
 failing heart that were so nearly vanquished. 
 
 Indeed, so completely did Andrew identify 
 Inmself during those silent hours with the 
 woman he loved, that ever after she had some 
 fleeting touches of his courage, and he had 
 •'ilways an intuitional tenderness towards a 
 woman's illogical weakness. 
 
 The fusion of these two natures took place 
 
s ^1 
 
 '2HG 
 
 .JUDITH MOOllE. 
 
 not in those sweet after hours of passion, but 
 in tliat silent room, into wliich now and tlieii 
 there peeped a wliite-capped nurse or a black- 
 a-vised little man, who saw always a ;;reat 
 mass of fading pink blooms, a pair of 1)ioa(l 
 shoulders in shabby velveteen bent tenderly 
 over the shadowy outline of a little head sunk 
 deep in the pillow. 
 
 After this supreme crisis there came a week 
 or two of slow convalescence, and then a wed- 
 ding that no one thought much of, regardinor it 
 merely as one of the prescribed formalities, like 
 the buying of the railroad tickets, necessary 
 before Andrew could take her away — away 
 back to the village in the valley, to the old 
 stone farm-house, to the homely flowers, the 
 lindens on the hill, to Rufus and Miss M ers, 
 where, for a time, she was not a wife at all. 
 only a poor little wind-tossed song-bird blown 
 to their bosoms for a refuge. 
 
 But that all changed. 
 
 Andrew wooed again a charming, capricious 
 woman, walking by her adoringly over the oltl 
 bricked walks beneath the horse-chestnuts, his 
 very soul trembling with the love her voice and 
 touch awakened ; and she was playfully prouJ 
 of her power, until suddenly some quick sense of 
 the dominance of the love she aroused friiiliteuod 
 
.lUDITlI MOOllE. 
 
 •287 
 
 her, and she turned to hide from liini in liisanns, 
 trembhngly afraid, no lonoer askin*;* love, but 
 pleading against it. 
 
 Time passes with them. The old farm-house 
 Iijis had some architectural additions — a tiny 
 conscn-vatory, a long dining-room, with quaint 
 porches and latticed windows ; for Andrew and 
 his wife appreciate too keenly the beauties of 
 tlieir home to mar its character by modernizing 
 it. Andrew lias learned to wear evening clothes 
 as easily as he does his old velveteens, and — 
 si sic omnia ! — himself often buys the little 
 liigh -heeled shoes in which Judith's heart de- 
 lights, for Judith never put off the old Eve of 
 her harmless vanities. 
 
 Every winter Andrew and his wife go to town 
 for a while, and visitors come to the farm-house 
 wlio fairly electrify the village with their 
 " cranks." 
 
 The best known of these is a little black- 
 a-vised man with big diamonds, a profane 
 tongue and a guilty but " thankful 'eart." He 
 che -ishes, so he says, a hopeless passion for Miss 
 Myers, and indeed Miss Myers likes the new 
 regime very well, for she was never ousted 
 from the house-keeping department, and if it 
 was a glory and a credit to manage well for 
 Andrew and herself, how much greater it is to 
 
rf'' < 
 
 238 
 
 •lUDITlI MOORE. 
 
 ^1 
 
 Mil 
 
 i I 
 
 cast honour over a board wliere such fine people 
 as Judith's friends sit daily. 
 
 Andrew is secretly very proud that all these 
 fine folk should come and sec how happy Juditli 
 is. Only once did he have any difference witli 
 any of them. That was when Judith first 
 regained her strength and her old manager came 
 to see her. He had a brand-new scheme for 
 Juditlx's benefit in his brain. She was to siiu' 
 in grand concerts, and he had all her tour 
 inappod out. He was good enough to say 
 Andrew could come along. Andrew held Itrief 
 and bitter speech with him, and then w^eiit to 
 Judith. He could see how strong the old 
 glamour yet was. He took her in his arms, and 
 after a long, tender discussion she gave him the 
 promise he wfts pleading for, never more to sing 
 in public, a decision which made Andrew her 
 slave forever, although it wrung his heart to see 
 what this renunciation cost her. He felt it was 
 right. Poor, high-strung Judith needed a steady 
 hand upon the rein of her eager spirit, else it 
 would have soon carried her beyond her strength, 
 And so, ringing about an old farm-house, or 
 through the chestnut woods, or below the 
 lindens on the hill-side, there often sounds a 
 voice once echoed by the hravos of the world. 
 Perhaps the aspiration it awakens in one stronj,' 
 soul is better applause. 
 
JUDITH MOORE. 
 
 239 
 
 {So Andrew and Judith live on, they two and 
 Miss Myers, as nearly happy as mortals may be. 
 Heaven would be entirely illogical if such as 
 they two had no heartaches. 
 
 Sometimes Judith steals away from Miss 
 Myers and Andrew and thinks of the old days, 
 the first efforts, the hopes, the fears, the strife 
 and the success — the glorious success that might 
 have been many times repeated ; that might, as 
 base metals might be transmuted into gold, have 
 Ijecome fame. A nasty heartache gnaws in her 
 breast, her face pales, her eyes grow wide and 
 eager. At such times Andrew knows well the 
 struggle that rends her tender heart, and he 
 soon searches her out : and ipon his breast, 
 beneath the spell of his worship her restless 
 spirit quiets itself to peace. What might be a 
 tragedy of distrust is made a bond of stronger 
 union by perfect confidence. But Judith's face 
 will always bear the traces of these times. 
 
 When a coal is carried from the Divine Fire 
 and laid upon mortal lips, it must be blown into 
 a flame to illumine the world, or it sears the lips 
 it touches. The gods will not have their gifts 
 disregarded. They care little that the mortal 
 breath may be too weak to sustain the flame, 
 though it perish in the effort. Indeed, the gods 
 : forgive that, and sometimes spare a little of 
 
240 
 
 JUDITH MOOllE. 
 
 i'N 
 
 their f^lory to <^il(l a grave. But let tlio hrcatli 
 they demand be stolen for our own sighs or 
 sobs, or stifled by dear-bought kisses, and tlity 
 give swift recompense of pain. Judith had 
 borne that smart. 
 
 Andrew, too, has unfulfilled dreams, as Juditli 
 knows when she sees his eyes grow wistful as 
 they rest upon the faces of children. And 
 Judith goes to him then, and lays her head upon 
 his arm with an apology so poignant, a love so 
 perfect in her grey eyes, that he forgets every- 
 thing in the marvel that this woman is lii.s. 
 And thus with each of them, the little shadows 
 only serve to enhance the sunshine. Their lifo 
 is a glorious reality ; their love a poem. To- 
 gether they kiiow no pain from the past, no 
 regret for the present, no fear for the future. 
 They sometimes even dare to dream that their 
 love will bestow upon them its own immortality 
 — that through eternity they will be as they 
 are now, together and happy. 
 
let tlic breath 
 
 own Hiji^hs or 
 
 sses, and tliuy 
 
 Juditli had 
 
 mis, as Juditli 
 row wistful as 
 lildren. And 
 her head upon 
 tiant, a love so 
 forgets every- 
 voman is his. 
 little shadows 
 lie. Their life 
 a poem. To- 
 i the past, no 
 3r the future. 
 3am that their 
 n imniortalitv 
 11 be as they 
 
 I \