But this is a thing apart.  This time we have set out to tell that other story which is always mentioned but never told.

Maude loved us.  That was the point upon which Harry and I agreed.  We had her authority for it; but where we differed was, which of the two did she love the better?

Harry, of course, took his own side in the matter.  He is a man of prejudice, and argues from sentiment rather than from conviction.

He said that on her way home from church a girl’s thoughts are of necessity solemn, and her utterances are therefore, the solemn truth.  He added that, in a matter of such importance as love, the conclusion reached after an hour or two of spiritual reflection and instruction, such as church in the evening inspires, is the true conclusion.

On the other hand, I maintained that human nature has something to do with women.  Very little, of course, but still enough to make my point a good one.  It is human nature for a girl to prefer matinees to Sunday evening services.  This is sad, no doubt, but so are some other great truths.  Maude, as a true type of girlhood, would naturally think more of the man who was taking her to a matinee than of the fellow who was escorting her home from church, therefore she loved me better than she did Harry, and he ought to have the sense to see it and withdraw.

Unfortunately, Harry is near-sighted in respect to arguments evolved by the mind of another, though in the perception of refinements in his own reasoning he has the eye of the eagle.  “Love on the way to a matinee,” he said, “is one part affection and nine parts enthusiasm.”

“And love on the return from church is in all ten parts temporary aberration,” I returned.  “It is what you might call Seventh Day affection.  Quiet, and no doubt sincere, but it is dissipated by the rising of the Monday sun.  It is like our good resolutions on New Year’s Day, which barely last over a fortnight.  Some little word spoken by the rector may have aroused in her breast a spark of love for you, but one spark does not make a conflagration.  Properly fanned it may develop into one, but in itself it is nothing more than a spark.  Who can say that it was not pity that led Maude to speak so to you?  Your necktie may have been disarranged without your knowing it, and at a time when she could not tell you of it.  That sort of thing inspires pity, and you know as well as I do that pity and love are cousins, but cousins who never marry.  You are favored, but not to the extent that I am.”

“You argue well,” returned Harry, “but you ignore the moon.  In the solemn presence of the great orb of night no woman would swear falsely.”

“You prick your argument with your point,” I answered.  “There were no extraneous arguments brought to bear on Maude when she confessed to me that she loved me.  It was done in the cold light of day.  There was no moon around to egg her on when she confessed her affection for me.  I know the moon pretty well myself, and I know just what effect it has on truth.  I have told falsehoods in the moonlight that I knew were falsehoods, and yet while Luna was looking on, no creature in the universe could have convinced me of their untruthfulness.  The moon’s rays have kissed the Blarney-stone, Harry.  A moonlight truth is a noonday lie.”