“’Tis bewitched you be, Peter!” said the old man suddenly, prodding me softly with his stick, “bewitched as ever was,” and he chuckled.

“Bewitched!” said I, starting.

“Ah!—­theer you stand wi’ your ’ammer in your ‘and—­a-starin’ an’ a-starin’ at nobody, nor nothin’—­leastways not as ’uman eye can see, an’ a-sighin’, an’ a-sighin’—­”

“Did I indeed sigh, Ancient?”

“Ah—­that ye did—­like a cow, Peter, or a ’orse ‘eavy an’ tired like.  An’ slow you be, an’ dreamy—­you as was so bright an’ spry; theer’s some—­fools, like Joel Amos, as might think as ‘twere the work o’ ghostes, or demons, a-castin’ their spells on ye, or that some vampire ‘ad bit ye in the night, an’ sucked your blood as ye lay asleep, but I know different—­you ’m just bewitched, Peter!” and he chuckled again.

“Who knows?—­perhaps I am, but it will pass, whatever it is, it will pass—­”

“Don’t ye be too sure o’ that—­theer’s bewitchments an’ bewitchments, Peter.”

Hereupon the smithy became full of the merry din of my hammer, and while I worked the Ancient smoked his pipe and watched me, informing me, between whiles, that the Jersey cow was “in calf,” that the hops seemed more than usually forward, and that he had waked that morning with a “touch o’ the rheumatics,” but, otherwise, he was unusually silent; moreover, each time that I happened to glance up, it was to find him regarding me with a certain fixity of eye, which at another time would have struck me as portentous.

“Ye be palish this marnin’, Peter!” said he, dabbing at me suddenly with his pipe-stem; “shouldn’t wonder if you was to tell me as your appetite was bad; come now—­ye didn’t eat much of a breakfus’ this marnin’, did ye?”

“I don’t think I did, Ancient.”

“A course not!” said the—­old man, with a nod of profound approval—­” it aren’t to be expected.  Let’s see, it be all o’ four months since I found ye, bean’t it?”

“Four months and a few odd days,” I nodded, and fell to work upon my glowing iron bar: 

“Ye’ll make a tidy smith one o’ these days, Peter,” said the old man encouragingly, as I straightened my back and plunged the iron back into the fire.

“Thank you, Ancient.”

“Ay—­you’ve larned to use a ‘ammer purty well, considerin’, though you be wastin’ your opportoonities shameful, Peter, shameful.”

“Am I, Ancient?”

“Ay, that ye be—­moon can’t last much longer—­she be on the wane a’ready!”

“Moon?” said I, staring.

“Ah, moon!” nodded the old man; “theer’s nowt like a moon, Peter, an’ if she be at the full so much the better.”

“But what have the moon and I to do with each other, Ancient?”

“Old I be, Peter, a old, old man, but I were young once, an’ I tell ’ee the moon ‘as a lot more to do wi’ it than some folks think—­why, Lord love ’ee! theer wouldn’t be near so many children a-playin’ in the sun if it wasn’t for the moon!”