Judith turned in surprise. "Aren't you coming in?"
"I'm afraid I haven't time."
"Oh, yes, you have."
A negro boy was running from the kitchen.
"Hitch Mr. Crittenden's horse," she said, and Crittenden climbed out
obediently and followed her to the porch, but she did not sit down
outside. She went on into the parlour and threw open the window to let
the last sunlight in, and sat by it looking at the west.
For a moment Crittenden watched her. He never realized before how much
simple physical beauty she had, nor did he realize the significance of
the fact that never until now had he observed it. She had been a spirit
before; now she was a woman as well. But he did note that if he could
have learned only from Judith, he would never have known that he even
had wrists or eyes until that day; and yet he was curiously unstirred by
the subtle change in her. He was busied with his own memories.
"And I know it can never come back," he said, and he went on thinking as
he looked at her. "I wonder if you can know what it is to have somebody
such a part of your life that you never hear a noble strain of music,
never read a noble line of poetry, never catch a high mood from nature,
nor from your own best thoughts--that you do not imagine her by your
side to share your pleasure in it all; that you make no effort to better
yourself or help others; that you do nothing of which she could approve,
that you are not thinking of her--that really she is not the inspiration
of it all. That doesn't come but once. Think of having somebody so
linked with your life, with what is highest and best in you, that, when
the hour of temptation comes and overcomes, you are not able to think of
her through very shame. I wonder if he loved you that way. I wonder if
you know what such love is."
"It never comes but once," he said, in a low tone, that made Judith turn
suddenly. Her eyes looked as if they were not far from tears.
A tiny star showed in the pink glow over the west-"Starlight, star bright!"
"Think of it. For ten years I never saw the first star without making
the same wish for you and me. Why," he went on, and stopped suddenly
with a little shame at making the confession even to himself, and at the
same time with an impersonal wonder that such a thing could be, "I used
to pray for you always--when I said my prayers--actually. And sometimes
even now, when I'm pretty hopeless and helpless and moved by some
memory, the old prayer comes back unconsciously and I find myself
repeating your name."