Part 27 (2/2)
”Bear cub! I don't know what John Spencer's thinking of!” grunted Peter.
”John doesn't think. He just feels,” said Judith. There was a short silence which the girl broke by saying, ”Peter, were you ever in love?”
The postmaster took his pipe from his mouth, stared at Judith's earnest eyes, put the pipe back and replied, ”Yes.”
”How many times?”
”How many times? Can you really be in love more than once, Judith?”
”Now, what's the use of saying that to me, Peter? I'm not a baby!”
”In many ways you are,” returned Peter, serenely. ”Why this interest in love? What's his name?”
”I'm not sure it's any one. But of course I think a lot about it. You aren't laughing, are you, Peter?”
”G.o.d forbid! I feel much more like crying.”
Judith smiled up at him, doubtfully.
”Crying?”
”Yes; you are so young, Jude. I hate to think of your dreams going by you.”
”Well, I'm not such a kid as you think I am. I'll bet I know all there is to know about love.”
”My G.o.d, Judith, you don't even know the real thing when it's offered you. All you know is the rot you've seen all your life. Love!” Peter snorted derisively.
Judith gave a little s.h.i.+ver of excitement. ”Well, if you know so much about love, Peter, what is it?”
”I don't know what it is, except that all of it, every aspect of it, understand, is bred right here.” He tapped his forehead. ”It begins in the brain, not in the body. Love is not l.u.s.t, Judith.”
Judith scowled thoughtfully. Peter let the thought soak in; then he said, ”And when real love comes, it takes possession of your mind and turns it into heaven and h.e.l.l.”
”Is that the way it came to you, Peter?”
”Yes!”
”How many times?”
”Twice. And I wouldn't want to endure it again.”
”There's a poem like that,” said Judith, somewhat blus.h.i.+ngly, ”Do you mind poetry? I read lots of it.”
”One should at sixteen,” returned the postmaster. ”No, I don't mind poetry. What were you thinking of?”
Judith, still blus.h.i.+ng, gave a cautious glance at the bed and began:
”He who for love hath undergone The worst that can befall, Is happier thousandfold than he Who never loved at all.
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