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.

“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.”