I stand, feet well apart, and swing the great “sledge” to whose diapason George’s hand-hammer beats a tinkling melody, coming in after each stroke with a ring and clash exact and true, as is, and has been, the way of masters of the smithing craft all the world over from time immemorial.

“George,” said I, during a momentary lull, leaning my hands upon the long hammer-shaft, “you don’t sing.”

“No, No, Peter.”

“And why not?”

“I think, Peter.”

“But surely you can both think and sing, George?”

“Not always, Peter.”

“What’s your trouble, George?”

“No trouble, Peter,” said he, above the roar of the bellows.

“Then sing, George.”

“Ay, Jarge, sing,” nodded the Ancient; “’tis a poor ’eart as never rejices, an’ that’s in the Scripters—­so, sing, Jarge.”

George did not answer, but, with a turn of his mighty wrist, drew the glowing iron from the fire.  And once more the sparks fly, the air is full of the clink of hammers, and the deep-throated Song of the Anvil, in which even the Ancient joins, in a voice somewhat quavery, and generally a note or two behind, but with great gusto and goodwill notwithstanding: 

“Strike! ding! ding! 
Strike! ding! ding!”

in the middle of which I was aware of one entering to us, and presently, turning round, espied Prudence with a great basket on her arm.  Hereupon hammers were thrown aside, and we straightened our backs, for in that basket was our supper.

Very fair and sweet Prudence looked, lithe and vigorous, and straight as a young poplar, with her shining black hair curling into little tight rings about her ears, and with great, shy eyes, and red, red mouth.  Surely a man might seek very far ere he found such another maid as this brown-cheeked, black-eyed village beauty.

“Good evening, Mr. Peter!” said she, dropping me a curtesy with a grace that could not have been surpassed by any duchess in the land; but, as for poor George, she did not even notice him, neither did he raise his curly head nor glance toward her.

“You come just when you are most needed, Prudence,” said I, relieving her of the heavy basket, “for here be two hungry men.”

“Three!” broke in the Ancient; “so ’ungry as a lion, I be!”

“Three hungry men, Prudence, who have been hearkening for your step this half-hour and more.”

Quoth Prudence shyly:  “For the sake of my basket?”

“Ay, for sure!” croaked the Ancient; “so ravenous as a tiger I be!”

“No,” said I, shaking my head, “basket or no basket, you are equally welcome, Prudence—­how say you, George?” But George only mumbled in his beard.  The Ancient and I now set to work putting up an extemporized table, but as for George, he stood staring down moodily into the yet glowing embers of the forge.

Having put up the table, I crossed to where Prudence was busy unpacking her basket.