Riches, Genius, Power—­all are fair things; yet Riches is never satisfied, Power is ever upon the wing, and when was Genius ever happy?  But, as for this divine gift of Simpleness of Heart, who shall say it is not the best of all?

Black George himself was no exception to his kind; what wonder was it, then, that, as the days lengthened into weeks, my liking for him ripened into friendship?

To us, sometimes lonely, voyagers upon this Broad Highway of life, journeying on, perchance through desolate places, yet hoping and dreaming ever of a glorious beyond, how sweet and how blessed a thing it is to meet some fellow wayfarer, and find in him a friend, honest, and loyal, and brave, to walk with us in the sun, whose voice may comfort us in the shadow, whose hand is stretched out to us in the difficult places to aid us, or be aided.  Indeed, I say again, it is a blessed thing, for though the way is sometimes very long, such meetings and friendships be very few and far between.

So, as I say, there came such friendship between Black George and myself, and I found him a man, strong, simple and lovable, and as such I honor him to this day.

The Ancient, on the contrary, seemed to have set me in his “black books;” he would no longer sit with me over a tankard outside “The Bull” of an evening, nor look in at the forge, with a cheery nod and word, as had been his wont; he seemed rather to shun my society, and, if I did meet him by chance, would treat me with the frigid dignity of a Grand Seigneur.  Indeed, the haughtiest duke that ever rolled in his chariot is far less proud than your plain English rustic, and far less difficult to propitiate.  Thus, though I had once had the temerity to question him as to his altered treatment of me, the once had sufficed.  He was sitting, I remember, on the bench before “The Bull,” his hands crossed upon his stick and his chin resting upon his hands.

“Peter,” he had answered, regarding me with a terrible eye, “Peter, I be disapp’inted in ye!” Hereupon rising, he had rapped loudly upon his snuff-box and hobbled stiffly away.  And that ended the matter, so far as I was concerned, though, to be sure, Simon had interceded in my behalf with no better success; and thus I was still left wondering.

One day, however, as George and I were hard at work, I became aware of some one standing in the doorway behind me, but at first paid no heed (for it was become the custom for folk to come to look at the man who lived all alone in the haunted cottage), so, as I say, I worked on heedlessly.

“Peter?” said a voice at last and, turning, I beheld the old man leaning upon his stick and regarding me beneath his lowered brows.

“Why, Ancient!” I exclaimed, and held out my hand.  But he checked me with a gesture, and fumblingly took out his snuff-box.

“Peter,” said he, fixing me with his eye, “were it a Scotchman or were it not?”