There he stood, busy at his anvil, goodly to look upon in his bare-armed might, and with the sun shining in his yellow hair, a veritable son of Anak.  He might have been some hero, or demigod come back from that dim age when angels wooed the daughters of men, rather than a village blacksmith, and a very sulky one at that; for though he must have been aware of my presence, he never glanced up or gave the slightest sign of welcome, or the reverse.

Now, as I watched, I noticed a certain slowness—­a heaviness in all his movements—­together with a listless, slipshod air which, I judged, was very foreign to him; moreover, as he worked, I thought he hung his head lower than was quite necessary.

“George!” George went on hammering.  “George!” said I again.  He raised the hammer for another stroke, hesitated, then lifted his head with a jerk, and immediately I knew why he had avoided my eye.

“What do ‘ee want wi’ me?”

“I have come for two reasons,” said I; “one is to begin work—­”

“Then ye’d best go away again,” he broke in; “ye’ll get no work here.”

“And the second,” I went on, “is to offer you my hand.  Will you take it, George, and let bygones be bygones?”

“No,” he burst out vehemently.  “No, I tell ’ee.  Ye think to come ‘ere an’ crow o’er me, because ye beat me, by a trick, and because ye heerd—­her—­” His voice broke, and, dropping his hammer, he turned his back upon me.  “Called me ‘coward’! she did,” he went on after a little while.  “You heerd her—­they all heerd her!  I’ve been a danged fule!” he said, more as if speaking his thoughts aloud than addressing me, “but a man can’t help lovin’ a lass—­like Prue, and when ’e loves ’e can’t ’elp hopin’.  I’ve hoped these three years an’ more, and last night —­she called me—­coward.”  Something bright and glistening splashed down upon the anvil, and there ensued a silence broken only by the piping of the birds and the stirring of the leaves outside.

“A fule I be!” said Black George at last, shaking his head, “no kind o’ man for the likes o’ her; too big I be—­and rough.  And yet—­if she’d only given me the chance!”

Again there fell a silence wherein, mingled with the bird-chorus, came the tap, tapping of a stick upon the hard road, and the sound of approaching footsteps; whereupon George seized the handle of the bellows and fell to blowing the fire vigorously; yet once I saw him draw the back of his hand across his eyes with a quick, furtive gesture.  A moment after, the Ancient appeared, a quaint, befrocked figure, framed in the yawning doorway and backed by the glory of the morning.  He stood awhile to lean upon his stick and peer about, his old eyes still dazzled by the sunlight he had just left, owing to which he failed to see me where I sat in the shadow of the forge.

“Marnin’, Jarge!” said he, with his quick, bright nod.  The smith’s scowl was blacker and his deep voice gruffer than usual as he returned the greeting; but the old man seemed to heed it not at all, but, taking his snuff-box from the lining of his tall, broad-brimmed hat (its usual abiding place), he opened it, with his most important air.