"Hum!" said I.

"You must go soon; he means it, I--I've seen death in his face,"

she said, shuddering; "go to-day--the longer you stay here the worse for all of us--go now."

"Prudence!" said I.

"Yes, Mr. Peter!" from behind her hands.

"You always loved Black George, didn't you?"

"Yes, Mr. Peter."

"And you love him still, don't you?" A moment's silence, then:

"Yes, Mr. Peter."

"Excellent!" said I. Her head was raised a trifle, and one tearful eye looked at me over her fingers. "I had always hoped you did," I continued, "for his sake, and for yours, and in my way, a very blundering way as it seems now, I have tried to bring you two together." Prudence only sobbed. "But things are not hopeless yet. I think I can see a means of straightening out this tangle."

"Oh, if we only could!" sobbed Prudence. "Ye see, I were very cruel to him, Mr. Peter!"

"Just a little, perhaps," said I, and, while she dabbed at her pretty eyes with her snowy apron, I took pen and ink from the shelf where I kept them, which, together with George's letter, I set upon the anvil. "Now," said I, in answer to her questioning look, "write down just here, below where George signed his name, what you told me a moment ago."

"You mean, that I--"

"That you love him, yes."

"Oh, Mr. Peter!"

"Prudence," said I, "it is the only way, so far as I can see, of saving George from himself; and no sweet, pure maid need be ashamed to tell her love, especially to such a man as this, who worships the very ground that little shoe of yours has once pressed."

She glanced up at me, under her wet lashes, as I said this, and a soft light beamed in her eyes, and a smile hovered upon her red lips.

"Do he--really, Mr. Peter?"

"Indeed he does, Prudence, though I think you must know that without my telling you." So she stooped above the anvil, blushing a little, and sighing a little, and crying a little, and, with fingers that trembled somewhat, to be sure, wrote these four words:

"George, I love you."

"What now, Mr. Peter?" she inquired, seeing me begin to unbuckle my leather apron.

"Now," I answered, "I am going to look for Black George."

"No!--no!" she cried, laying her hands upon my arm, "no! no! if 'ee do meet him, he--he'll kill 'ee!"

"I don't think he will," said I, shaking my head.

"Oh, don't go!--don't go!" she pleaded, shaking my arm in her eagerness; "he be so strong and wild and quick--he'll give 'ee no chance to speak--'twill be murder!"

"Prudence," said I, "my mind is set on it. I am going--for your sake, for his sake, and my own;" saying which, I loosed her hands gently and took down my coat from its peg.

"Dear God!" she exclaimed, staring down at the floor with wide eyes, "if he were to kill 'ee--!"

"Well," said I, "my search would be ended and I should be a deal wiser in all things than I am to-day."

"And he--would be hanged!" said Prudence, shuddering.

"Probably--poor fellow!" said I. At this she glanced quickly up, and once again the crimson dyed her cheeks.

"Oh, Mr. Peter, forgive me! I--I were only thinkin' of Jarge, and--"

"And quite right too, Prudence," I nodded; "he is indeed worth any good woman's thoughts; let it be your duty to think of him, and for him, henceforth."

"Wait!" said she, "wait!" And turning, she fled through the doorway and across the road, swift and graceful as any bird, and presently was back again, with something hidden in her apron.

"He be a strong man, and terrible in his wrath," said she, "and I--love him, but--take this wi' you, and if it--must be--use it, because I _do_ love him." Now, as she said this, she drew from her apron that same brass-bound pistol that had served me so well against the "ghost" and thrust it into my hand. "Take it, Mr.

Peter--take it, but--oh!"--here a great sob choked her voice--"

don't--don't use it--if--if you can help it, for my sake."

"Why, Prue!" said I, touching her bowed head very tenderly, "how can you think I would go up against my friend with death in my hand--Heaven forbid!" So I laid aside the weapon and, clapping on my hat, strode out into the glory of the summer morning, but left her weeping in the shadows.

CHAPTER VII

WHICH NARRATES A SOMEWHAT REMARKABLE CONVERSATION

To find a man in Cambourne Woods, even so big a man as Black George, would seem as hard a matter as to find the needle in the proverbial "bottle of hay;" the sun crept westward, the day declined into evening, yet, hungry though I was, I persevered in my search, not so much in the hope of finding him (in the which I knew I must be guided altogether by chance), as from a disinclination to return, just yet, to the cottage. "It would be miserable there at this hour," I told myself, "miserable and lonely."

Yet why should I be lonely; I, who had gloried in my solitude hitherto? Whence then had come this change?

While I stood thus, seeking an answer to this self-imposed question and finding none, I heard some one approach, whistling, and, looking about, beheld a fellow with an axe upon his shoulder, who strode along at a good pace, keeping time to his whistle. He gave me a cheery greeting as he came up, but without stopping.

"You seem in a hurry," said I.

"Ah!" grinned the man, over his shoulder, "'cause why?--'cause I be goin' 'ome."

"Home!" said I.

"To supper," he nodded, and, forthwith, began to whistle again, while I stood listening till the clear notes had died away.

"Home!" said I for the second time, and there came upon me a feeling of desolation such as I had never known even in my neglected boyhood's days.

Home! truly a sweet word, a comfortable word, the memory of which has been as oil and wine to many a sick and weary traveler upon this Broad Highway of life; a little word, and yet one which may come betwixt a man and temptation, covering him like a shield.

"Roof and walls, be they cottage or mansion, do not make home,"

thought I, "rather is it the atmosphere of mutual love, the intimacies of thought, the joys and sorrows endured together, and the never-failing sympathy--that bond invisible yet stronger than death."

And, because I had, hitherto, known nothing of this, I was possessed of a great envy for this axe-fellow as I walked on through the wood.