“She’d laugh at me, Ancient.”

“Not she.”

“That soft, low laugh of hers.”

“Well, what o’ that?”

“Besides, she hardly knows me!”

The Ancient took out his snuff-box and gave two loud double knocks upon the lid.

“A woman knows a man sooner than a man knows a woman—­ah, a sight sooner!  Why, Lord bless ye, Peter, she ’as ’im all reckoned up long afore ’e knows for sure if ’er eyes be—­black ’uns or brown ’uns—­that she ’as.”  Here he extracted a pinch of snuff.  “As for Prudence—­she loves ‘ee wi’ all ’er ‘eart an’ soul!”

“Prudence?” said I, staring.

“Ah!  Prudence—­I be ‘er grandfeyther, an’ I know.”

“Prudence!” said I again.

“She ’m a ‘andsome lass, an’ so pretty as a picter—­you said so yourself, an’ what’s more, she ‘m a sensible lass, an’ ’ll make ye as fine a wife as ever was if only—­”

“If only she loved me, Ancient.”

“To be sure, Peter.”

“But, you see, she doesn’t.”

“Eh—­what?  What, Peter?”

“Prudence doesn’t love me!”

“Doesn’t—­”

“Not by any means.”

“Peter—­ye’re jokin’.”

“No, Ancient.”

“But I—­I be all took aback—­mazed I be—­not love ye, an’ me wi’ my ’eart set on it—­are ye sure?”

“Certain.”

“’Ow d’ye know?”

“She told me so.”

“But—­why—­why shouldn’t she love ye?”

“Why should she?”

“But I—­I’d set my ’eart on it, Peter.”

“It is very unfortunate!” said I, and began blowing up the fire.

“Peter.”

“Yes, Ancient?”

“Do ’ee love she?”

“No, Ancient.”  The old man rose, and, hobbling forward, tapped me upon the breast with the handle of his stick.  “Then who was you a-talkin’ of, a while back—­’bout ‘er eyes, an’ ’er ‘air, an’ ‘er dress, an’ bein’ afraid o’ them?”

“To be exact, I don’t know, Ancient.”

“Oh, Peter!” exclaimed the old man, shaking his head, “I wonders at ye; arter me a-thinkin’ an’ a-thinkin’, an’ a-plannin’ an’ a-plannin’ all these months—­arter me a-sendin’ Black Jarge about ’is business—­”

“Ancient, what do you mean?”

“Why, didn’t I out an’ tell un as you was sweet on Prue—­”

“Did you tell him that?” I cried.

“Ay, to be sure I did; an’ what’s more, I says to un often an’ often, when you wasn’t by:  ‘Jarge,’ I’d say, ’Prue’s a lovely maid, an’ Peter’s a fine young chap, an’ they ‘m beginnin’ to find each other out, they be all’us a-talkin’ to each other an’ a-lookin’ at each other, mornin’, noon an’ night!’ I says; ’like as not we’ll ’ave ’em marryin’ each other afore very long!’ an’ Jarge ’ud just wrinkle up ‘is brows, an’ walk away, an’ never say a word.  But now—­it be tur’ble ’ard to be disapp’inted like this, Peter arter I’d set my ‘eart on it—­an’ me such a old man such a very ancient man.  Oh, Peter! you be full o’ disapp’intments, an’ all manner o’ contrariness; sometimes I a’most wishes as I’d never took the trouble to find ye at all!”