the ways of women I might have taken less pains.

"You're a deal changed from what you used to be, Jack," said she,
looking at me sideways from under her dark lashes.

"You said not when first we met," says I.

"Ah! I was speaking of your looks then, and of your ways now. You used
to be so rough to me, and so masterful, and would have your own way,
like the little man that you were. I can see you now with your touzled
brown hair and your mischievous eyes. And now you are so gentle and
quiet and soft-spoken."

"One learns to behave," says I.

"Ah, but, Jack, I liked you so much better as you were!"

Well, when she said that I fairly stared at her, for I had thought that
she could never have quite forgiven me for the way I used to carry on.
That anyone out of a daft house could have liked it, was clean beyond my
understanding. I thought of how when she was reading by the door I
would go up on the moor with a hazel switch and fix little clay balls at
the end of it, and sling them at her until I made her cry. And then I
thought of how I caught an eel in the Corriemuir burn and chivied her
about with it, until she ran screaming under my mother's apron half mad
with fright, and my father gave me one on the ear-hole with the porridge
stick which knocked me and my eel under the kitchen dresser. And these
were the things that she missed! Well, she must miss them, for my hand
would wither before I could do them now. But for the first time I began
to understand the queerness that lies in a woman, and that a man must