"That," retorted the Ancient, stabbing at me with his pipe-stem, "that's because you never was married, Peter."

"Marriage!" said I; "marriage brings care, and great responsibility, and trouble for one's self means trouble for others."

"What o' that?" exclaimed the Ancient. "'Tis care and 'sponsibility as mak' the man, an' if you marry a good wife she'll share the burden wi' ye, an' ye'll find what seemed your troubles is a blessin'

arter all. When sorrer comes, 'tis a sweet thing--oh! a very sweet thing--to 'ave a woman to comfort ye an' 'old your 'and in the dark hour--an' theer's no sympathy so tender as a woman's, Peter. Then, when ye be old, like me, an' full o' years 'tis a fine thing to 'ave a son o' your own--like Simon an' a granddarter--like my Prue--'tis worth 'aving lived for, Peter, ay, well worth it. It's a man's dooty to marry, Peter, 'is dooty to 'isself an' the world. Don't the Bible say summat about it not bein' good for a man to live alone? Every man as is a man should marry the sooner the better."

"But," said I, "to every happy marriage there are scores of miserable ones."

"'Cause why, Peter? 'Cause people is in too much o' a hurry to marry, as a rule. If a man marries a lass arter knowin' 'er a week--'ow is 'e goin' to know if she'll suit 'im all 'is days?

Nohow, Peter, it aren't natral--woman tak's a lot o' knowin'.

'Marry in 'aste, an' repent in leisure!' That aren't in the Bible, but it ought to be."

"And your own marriage was a truly happy one, Ancient?"

"Ah! that it were, Peter, 'appy as ever was--but then, ye see, there was a Providence in it. I were a fine young chap in them days, summat o' your figure only bigger--ah! a sight bigger--an'

I were sweet on several lassies, an' won't say as they wer'n't sweet on me--three on 'em most especially so. One was a tall, bouncin' wench wi' blue eyes, an' golden 'air--like sunshine it were, but it wer'n't meant as I should buckle up wi' 'er."

"Why not?"

"'Cause, it so 'appened as she married summun else."

"And the second?"

"The second were a fine, pretty maid tu, but I couldn't marry she."

"Why?"

"'Cause, Peter, she went an' took an' died afore I could ax 'er."

"And the third, you married."

"No, Peter, though it come to the same thing in the end--she married I. Ye see, though I were allus at 'er beck an' call, I could never pluck the courage to up an' ax 'er right out. So things went on for a year or so, maybe, till one day--she were makin' apple dumplings, Peter--'Martin,' says she, lookin' at me sideways out of 'er black eyes--just like Prue's they were --'Martin,' says she, 'you 'm uncommon fond o' apple-dumplings?'

'For sure,' says I, which I were, Peter. 'Martin,' says she, 'shouldn't 'ee like to eat of 'em whenever you wanted to, at your very own table, in a cottage o' your own?' 'Ah! if you'd mak'

'em!' says I, sharp like. 'I would if you'd ax me, Martin,' says she. An' so we was married, Peter, an' as you see, theer was a Providence in it, for, if the first one 'adn't married some 'un else, an' the second 'adn't died, I might ha' married one o'

they, an' repented it all my days, for I were young then, an'

fulish, Peter, fulish." So saying, the Ancient rose, sighing, and knocked the ashes from his pipe.

"Talkin' 'bout Prue," said he, taking up his hat and removing his snuff-box therefrom ere he set it upon his head, "talkin' 'bout Prue," he repeated, with a pinch of snuff at his nostrils.

"Well?" The word seemed shot out of George involuntarily.

"Talkin' 'bout Prue," said the Ancient again, glancing at each of us in turn, "theer was some folks as used to think she were sweet on Jarge theer, but I, bein' 'er lawful gran'feyther knowed different--didn't I, Jarge?"

"Ay," nodded the smith.

"Many's the time I've said to you a-sittin' in this very corner, 'Jarge,' I've said, 'mark my words, Jarge--if ever my Prue does marry some'un--which she will--that there some 'un won't be you.'

Them be my very words, bean't they, Jarge?"

"Your very words, Gaffer," nodded George.

"Well then," continued the old man, "'ere's what I was a-comin'

to--Prue 's been an' fell in love wi' some 'un at last."

Black George's pipe shivered to fragments on the floor, and as he leaned forward I saw that his great hands were tightly clenched.

"Gaffer," said he, in a strangled voice, "what do 'ee mean?"

"I means what I says, Jarge."

"How do 'ee know?"

"Bean't I the lass's gran'feyther?"

"Be ye sure, Gaffer--quite sure?"

"Ay--sartin sure--twice this week, an' once the week afore she forgot to put any salt in the soup--an' that speaks wollums, Jarge, wollums!" Here, having replaced his snuff-box, the Ancient put on his hat, nodded, and bobbled away. As for Black George, he sat there, staring blindly before him long after the tapping of the Ancient's stick had died away, nor did he heed me when I spoke, wherefore I laid my hand upon his shoulder.

"Come, George," said I, "another hour, and the screen will be finished." He started, and, drawing from my hand, looked up at me very strangely.

"No, Peter," he mumbled, "I aren't a-goin' to work no more tonight," and as he spoke he rose to his feet.

"What--are you going?" said I, as be crossed to the door.

"Ay, I'm a-goin'." Now, as he went towards his cottage, I saw him reel, and stagger, like a drunken man.

CHAPTER XXXIII

IN WHICH WE DRAW YET NEARER TO THE END OF THIS FIRST BOOK

It is not my intention to chronicle all those minor happenings that befell me, now or afterward, lest this history prove wearisome to the reader (on the which head I begin to entertain grave doubts already). Suffice it then that as the days grew into weeks, and the weeks into months, by perseverance I became reasonably expert at my trade, so that, some two months after my meeting with Black George, I could shoe a horse with any smith in the country.

But, more than this, the people with whom I associated day by day--honest, loyal, and simple-hearted as they were, contented with their lot, and receiving all things so unquestioningly and thankfully, filled my life, and brought a great calm to a mind that had, hitherto, been somewhat self-centred and troubled by pessimistic doubts and fantastic dreams culled from musty pages.

What book is there to compare with the great Book of Life--whose pages are forever a-turning, wherein are marvels and wonders undreamed; things to weep over, and some few to laugh at, if one but has eyes in one's head to see withal?

To walk through the whispering cornfields, or the long, green alleys of the hop-gardens with Simon, who combines innkeeping with farming, to hear him tell of fruit and flower, of bird and beast, is better than to read the Georgics of Virgil.

To sit in the sunshine and watch the Ancient, pipe in mouth, to hearken to his animadversions upon Life, and Death, and Humanity, is better than the cynical wit of Rochefoucauld, or a page out of honest old Montaigne.

To see the proud poise of sweet Prue's averted head, and the tender look in her eyes when George is near, and the surge of the mighty chest and the tremble of the strong man's hand at the sound of her light footfall, is more enthralling than any written romance, old or new.

In regard to these latter, I began, at this time, to contrive schemes and to plot plots for bringing them together--to bridge over the difficulty which separated them, for, being happy, I would fain see them happy also. Now, how I succeeded in this self-imposed task, the reader (if he trouble to read far enough) shall see for himself.

"George," said I, on a certain Saturday morning, as I washed the grime from my face and hands, "are you going to the Fair this afternoon?"