Judith gave a little shiver 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 lust, 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 hell.”

“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 blushingly, “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 blushing, 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.

A grace within his soul hath reigned
  Which nothing else can bring. 
Thank God for all that I have gained
  By that high suffering!”

Peter, watching Judith with something deeply sad in his blue eyes, nodded when she had finished.  “Youth!” he muttered.  “Youth!”

“Do you believe it, Peter?” demanded Judith.

“Yes, I do.  Girl, how much high suffering will you get out of your goings on with Scott?”

“None at all, Peter.”

“I wish I were twenty years younger,” said Peter.

“If you were twenty years younger you wouldn’t be as wise as you are now.”

“And what happiness has wisdom brought me?” exclaimed Peter.

“It must be mighty fine to really know things,” said Judith.

“What kind of things?”

“O, love and all that kind of thing.”

“I’d like a drink of water, please!” Douglas opened his eyes.

“Have you been listening, Douglas?” demanded Judith.

“I don’t think I missed any of it,” Doug smiled.  “You’re growing up, Jude.”

Judith tossed her head.  “I think it was rotten of you to listen to my conversation with another man!” And although she and Peter talked in a desultory way until dawn, the vasty subject of love was not mentioned again.

About ten o’clock the next morning Charleton Falkner came to see Douglas.  He hardly had established himself when the thunder of many hoofs sounded without, a wrangling of dogs began, and John Spencer thrust open the door to Peter’s living quarters.  He was spattered with mud from head to foot.  So was Scott Parsons, who followed him, as well as Sheriff Frank Day and Jimmy Day, who brought up the procession.

Judith, who had been washing dishes, hastily dumped the dish-water out of the window.  Charleton, with his familiar, sardonic grin, propped Douglas up on a pillow.