And what inn kitchen, in all broad England, was ever brighter, neater, and more comfortable than this kitchen of “The Bull,” where sweet Prue held supreme sway, with such grave dignity, and with her two white-capped maids to do her bidding and behests? —­surely none.  And surely in no inn, tavern, or hostelry soever, great or small, was there ever seen a daintier, prettier, sweeter hostess than this same Prue of ours.

And her presence was reflected everywhere, and, if ever the kitchen of an inn possessed a heart to lose, then, beyond all doubt, this kitchen had lost its heart to Prue long since; even the battered cutlasses crossed upon the wall, the ponderous jack above the hearth, with its legend:  Anno DOMINI 1643, took on a brighter sheen to greet her when she came, and as for the pots and pans, they fairly twinkled.

But today Prue’s eyes were red, and her lips were all a-droop, the which, though her smile was brave and ready, the Ancient was quick to notice.

“Why, Prue, lass, you’ve been weepin’!”

“Yes, grandfer.”

“Your pretty eyes be all swole—­red they be; what’s the trouble?”

“Oh! ’tis nothing, dear, ’tis just a maid’s fulishness—­never mind me, dear.”

“Ah! but I love ’ee, Prue—­come, kiss me—­theer now, tell me all about it—­all about it, Prue.”

“Oh, grandfer!” said she, from the hollow of his shoulder, “’tis just—­Jarge!” The old man grew very still, his mouth opened slowly, and closed with a snap.

“Did ‘ee—­did’ee say—­Jarge, Prue?  Is it—­breekin’ your ’eart ye be for that theer poachin’ Black Jarge?  To think—­as my Prue should come down to a poacbin’—­”

Prudence slipped from his encircling arm and stood up very straight and proud—­there were tears thick upon her lashes, but she did not attempt to wipe them away.

“Grandfer,” she said very gently, “you mustn’t speak of Jarge to me like that—­ye mustn’t—­ye mustn’t because I—­love him, and if —­he ever—­comes back I’ll marry him if—­if he will only ax me; and if he—­never comes back, then—­I think—­I shall—­die!” The Ancient took out his snuff-box, knocked it, opened it, glanced inside, and—­shut it up again.

“Did ’ee tell me as you—­love—­Black Jarge, Prue?”

“Yes, grandfer, I always have and always shall!”

“Loves Black Jarge!” he repeated; “allus ’as—­allus will!  Oh, Lord! what ’ave I done?” Now, very slowly, a tear crept down his wrinkled cheek, at sight of which Prue gave a little cry, and, kneeling beside his chair, took him in her arms.  “Oh, my lass! —­my little Prue—­’tis all my doin’.  I thought—­Oh, Prue, ’twere me as parted you!  I thought—­” The quivering voice broke off.

“’Tis all right, grandfer, never think of it—­see there, I be smilin’!” and she kissed him many times.

“A danged fule I be!” said the old man, shaking his head.

“No, no, grandfer!”