"Trees be very like men," said the Ancient, nodding to one that lay prone beside the path, "'ere to-day an' gone to-morrer, Peter--gone to-morrer. The man in the Bible, 'im as was cured of 'is blindness by our blessed Lord, 'e said as men was like trees walkin', but, to my mind, Peter, trees is much more like men a-standin' still. Ye see, Peter, trees be such companionable things; it's very seldom as you see a tree growin' all by itself, an' when you do, if you look at it you can't 'elp but notice 'ow lonely it do look. Ay, its very leaves seem to 'ave a down-'earted sort o' drop. I knowed three on 'em once--elm-trees they was growin' all close together, so close that their branches used to touch each other when the wind blew, jest as if they was a-shakin' 'ands wi' one another, Peter. You could see as they was uncommon fond of each other, wi' half an eye. Well; one day, along comes a storm and blows one on 'em down--kills it dead, Peter; an' a little while later, they cuts down another--Lord knows why--an' theer was the last one, all alone an' solitary.

Now, I used to watch that theer tree--an' here's the cur'us thing, Peter--day by day I see that tree a-droopin' an' droopin', a-witherin' an' a-pinin' for them other two--brothers you might say--till one day I come by, an' theer it were, Peter, a-standin'

up so big an' tall as ever--but dead! Ay, Peter, dead it were, an' never put forth another leaf, an' never will, Peter--never.

An', if you was to ax me, I should say as it died because its 'eart were broke, Peter. Yes, trees is very like men, an' the older you grow the more you'll see it."

I listened, It was thus we talked, or rather, the Ancient talked and I listened, until we reached Sissinghurst. At the door of the smithy we stopped.

"Peter," said the old man, staring very hard at a button on my coat.

"Well, Ancient?"

"What about that theer--poor, old, rusty--stapil?"

"Why, it is still above the door, Ancient; you must have seen it this morning."

"Oh, ah! I seed it, Peter, I seed it," answered the old man, shifting his gaze to a rolling white cloud above. "I give it a glimp' over, Peter, but what do 'ee think of it?"

"Well," said I, aware of the fixity of his gaze and the wistful note in his voice, "it is certainly older and rustier than it was."

"Rustier, Peter?"

"Much rustier!" Very slowly a smile dawned on the wrinkled old face, and very slowly the eyes were lowered till they met mine.

"Eh, lad! but I be glad o' that--we be all growin' older, Peter, an'--though I be a wonnerful man for my age, an' so strong as a cart-'orse, Peter, still, I du sometimes feel like I be growin'

rustier wi' length o' days, an' 'tis a comfort to know as that theer stapil's a-growin' rustier along wi' me. Old I be, but t'

stapil's old too, Peter, an' I be waitin' for the day when it shall rust itself away altogether; an' when that day comes, Peter, then I'll say, like the patriach in the Bible: 'Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace!' Amen, Peter!"

"Amen!" said I. And so, having watched the old man totter across to "The Bull," I turned into the smithy and, set about lighting the fire.

CHAPTER VI

IN WHICH I LEARN OF AN IMPENDING DANGER

I am at the forge, watching the deepening glow of the coals as I ply the bellows; and, listening to their hoarse, not unmusical drone, it seems like a familiar voice (or the voice of a familiar), albeit a somewhat wheezy one, speaking to me in stertorous gasps, something in this wise:

"Charmian Brown--desires to thank--Mr. Smith but because thanks --are so poor and small--and his service so great--needs must she remember him--"

"Remember me!" said I aloud, and, letting go the shaft of the bellows the better to think this over, it naturally followed that the bellows grew suddenly dumb, whereupon I seized the handle and recommenced blowing with a will.

"--remember him as a gentleman," wheezed the familiar.

"Psha!" I exclaimed.

"--yet oftener as a smith--"

"Hum!" said I.

"--and most of all--as a man."

"As a man!" said I, and, turning my back upon the bellows, I sat down upon the anvil and, taking my chin in my hand, stared away to where the red roof of old Amos's oast-house peeped through the swaying green of leaves.

"As a man?" said I to myself again, and so fell a-dreaming of this Charmian. And, in my mind, I saw her, not as she had first appeared, tall and fierce and wild, but as she had been when she stooped to bind up the hurt in my brow--with her deep eyes brimful of tenderness, and her mouth sweet and compassionate.

Beautiful eyes she had, though whether they were blue or brown or black, I could not for the life of me remember; only I knew I could never forget the look they had held when she gave that final pat to the bandage. And here I found that I was turning a little locket round and round in my fingers, a little, old-fashioned, heart-shaped locket with its quaint inscription:

"Hee who myne heart would keepe for long Shall be a gentil man and strong."

I was sitting thus, plunged in a reverie, when a shadow fell across the floor, and looking up I beheld Prudence, and straightway, slipping the locket back into the bosom of my shirt, I rose to my feet, somewhat shamefaced to be caught thus idle.

Her face was troubled, and her eyes red, as from recent tears, while in her hand she held a crumpled paper.

"Mr. Peter--" she began, and then stopped, staring at me.

"Well, Prudence?"

"You--you've seen him!"

"Him--whom do you mean?"

"Black Jarge!"

"No; what should make you think so?"

"Your face be all cut--you've been fightin'!"

"And supposing I have--that is none of George's doing; he and I are very good friends--why should we quarrel?"

"Then--then it weren't Jarge?"

"No--I have not seen him since Saturday."

"Thank God!" she exclaimed, pressing her hand to her bosom as if to stay its heaving. "But you must go," she went on breathlessly.

"Oh, Mr. Peter! I've been so fearful for 'ee, and--and--you might meet each other any time, so--so you must go away."

"Prudence," said I, "Prudence, what do you mean?"

For answer, she held out the crumpled paper, and, scrawled in great, straggling characters, I read these words:

"PRUDENCE,--I'm going away, I shall kill him else, but I shall come back. Tell him not to cross my path, or God help him, and you, and me. GEORGE."

"What does it all mean, Prudence?" said I, like a fool.

Now, as I spoke; glancing at her I saw her cheeks, that had seemed hitherto more pale than usual, grow suddenly scarlet, and, meeting my eyes, she hid her face in her two hands. Then, seeing her distress, in that same instant I found the answer to my question, and so stood, turning poor George's letter over and over, more like a fool than ever.

"You must go away--you must go away!" she repeated.