“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.