'Lord!' says everybody, an' well they might, Peter, an' nobody says nothin' for a while. 'I wonder,' says Joel Amos at last, 'I wonder who 'e was a-draggin' through the tops o' the trees--an'

why?' 'That'll be poor Peter bein' took away,' says I, 'I'll go an' find the poor lad's corp' in the mornin'--an' 'ere I be."

"And you find me not dead, after all your trouble," said I.

"If," said the Ancient, sighing, "if your arms was broke, or your legs was broke, now--or if your 'air was singed, or your face all burned an' blackened wi' sulphur, I could ha' took it kinder; but to find ye a-sittin' eatin' an' drinkin'--it aren't what I expected of ye, Peter, no." Shaking his head moodily, he took from his hat his neverfailing snuff-box, but, having extracted a pinch, paused suddenly in the act of inhaling it, to stare at me very hard. "But," said he, in a more hopeful tone, "but your face be all bruised an' swole up, to be sure, Peter."

"Is it, Ancient?"

"Ah! that it be--that it be," he cried, his eyes brightening, "an' your thumb all bandaged tu."

"Why, so it is, Ancient."

"An'--Peter--!" The pinch of snuff fell, and made a little brown cloud on the snow of his smock-frock as he rose, trembling, and leaned towards me, across the table.

"Well, Ancient?"

"Your throat--!"

"Yes--what of it?"

"It--be all marked--scratched it be--tore, as if--as if--claws 'ad been at it, Peter, long--sharp claws!"

"Is it, Ancient?"

"Peter--oh, Peter!" said he, with a sudden quaver in his voice, "who was it--what was it, Peter?" and he laid a beseeching hand upon mine. "Peter!" His voice had sunk almost to a whisper, and the hand plucked tremulously at my sleeve, while in the wrinkled old face was, a, look of pitiful entreaty. "Oh, Peter! oh, lad! 'twere Old Nick as done it--'twere the devil as done it, weren't it--? oh! say 'twere the devil, Peter." And, seeing that hoary head all a-twitch with eagerness as he waited my answer, how could I do other than nod?

"Yes, it was the devil, Ancient." The old man subsided into his chair; embracing himself exultantly.

"I knowed it! I knowed it!" he quavered. "'Twere the devil flyin' off wi' Peter,' says I, an' they fules laughed at me, Peter, ay, laughed at me they did, but they won't laugh at the old man no more--not they; old I be, but they won't laugh at me no more, not when they see your face an' I tell 'em." Here he paused to fumble for his snuff-box, and, opening it, held it towards me.

"Tak' a pinch wi' me, Peter."

"No, thank you, Ancient."

"Come, 'twould be a wonnerful thing to tell as I'd took snuff out o' my very own box wi' a man as 'ad fou't wi' the devil --come--tak' a pinch, Peter," he pleaded. Whereupon, to please him, I did so, and immediately fell most violently a-sneezing.

"And," pursued the old man when the paroxysm was over, "did ye see 'is 'orns, Peter, an' 'is--"

"Why, no, Ancient; you see, he happened to be wearing a bell-crowned hat and a long coat."

"A 'at an' coat!" said the old man in a disappointed tone--"a 'at, Peter?"

"Yes," I nodded.

"To be sure, the Scripters say as 'e goeth up an' down like a ravening lion seekin' whom 'e may devour."

"Yes," said I, "but more often, I think, like a fine gentleman!"

"I never heerd tell o' the devil in a bell-crowned 'at afore, but p'r'aps you 'm right, Peter--tak' another pinch o' snuff."

"No more," said I, shaking my head.

"Why, it's apt to ketch you a bit at first, but, Lord! Peter, for a man as 'as fou't wi' the devil--"

"One pinch is more than enough, Ancient."

"Oh, Peter, 'tis a wonnerful thing as you should be alive this day!"

"And yet, Ancient, many a man has fought the devil before now and lived--nay, has been the better for it."

"Maybe, Peter, maybe, but not on sech a tur'ble wild night as last night was." Saying which, the old man nodded emphatically and, rising, hobbled to the door; yet there he turned and came back again. "I nigh forgot, Peter, I have noos for ye."

"News?"

"Noos as ever was--noos as'll surprise ye, Peter."

"Well?" I inquired.

"Well, Peter, Black Jarge be 'took' again."

"What?" I exclaimed.

"Oh! I knowed 'twould come--I knowed 'e couldn't last much longer. I says to Simon, day afore yesterday it were, 'Simon,' I says, 'mark my words, 'e'll never last the month out--no.'"

"How did it happen, Ancient?"

"Got tur'ble drunk, 'e did, over to Cranbrook--throwed Mr.

Scrope, the Beadle, over the churchyard wall--knocked down Jeremy Tullinger, the Watchman, an' then--went to sleep. While 'e were asleep they managed, cautious-like, to tie 'is legs an' arms, an'

locked 'im up, mighty secure, in the vestry. 'Ows'ever, when 'e woke up 'e broke the door open, an' walked out, an' nobody tried to stop 'im--not a soul, Peter."

"And when was all this?"

"Why, that's the very p'int," chuckled the Ancient, "that's the wonnerful part of it, Peter. It all 'appened on Sat'day night, day afore yesterday as ever was--the very same day as I says to Simon, 'mark my words, 'e won't last the month out.'"

"And where is he now?"

"Nobody knows, but theer's them as says they see 'im makin' for Sefton Woods." Hereupon, breakfast done, I rose, and took my hat.

"Wheer away, Peter?"

"To the forge; there is much work to be done, Ancient."

"But Jarge bean't theer to 'elp ye."

"Yet the work remains, Ancient."

"Why then, if you 'm goin', I'll go wi' ye, Peter." So we presently set out together.

All about us, as we walked, were mute evidences of the fury of last night's storm: trees had been uprooted, and great branches torn from others as if by the hands of angry giants; and the brook was a raging torrent. Down here, in the Hollow, the destruction had been less, but in the woods, above, the giants had worked their will, and many an empty gap showed where, erstwhile, had stood a tall and stately tree.