But as I rode, watching the evening deepen about me, soft and clear rose the merry chime of hammer and anvil, and, turning aside to the smithy, I paused there, and, stooping my head, looked in at the door.

“George!” said I. He started erect, and, dropping hammer and tongs, came out, running, then stopped suddenly, as one abashed.

“Oh, friend!” said I, “don’t you know me?”

“Why—­Peter—­” he stammered, and broke off.

“Have you no greeting for me, George?”

“Ay, ay—­I heerd you was free, Peter, and I was glad—­glad, because you was the man as I loved, an’ I waited—­ay, I’ve been waitin’ for ’ee to come back.  But now you be so changed—­so fine an’ grand—­an’ I be all black wi’ soot from the fire—­oh, man! ye bean’t my Peter no more—­”

“Never say that, George—­never say that,” I cried, and, leaping from the saddle, I would have caught his hand in mine, but he drew back.

“You be so fine an’ grand, Peter, an’ I be all sooty from the fire!” he repeated.  “I’d like to just wash my ’ands first.”

“Oh, Black George!” said I, “dear George.”

“Be you rich now, Peter?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“A gentleman wi’ ‘orses an’ ‘ouses an’ servants?”

“Well—­what of it?”

“I’d—­like to—­wash my ’ands first, if so be you don’t mind, Peter.”

“George,” said I, “don’t be a fool!” Now, as we stood thus, fronting each other in the doorway, I heard a light step upon the road behind me, and, turning, beheld Prudence.

“Oh, Prue, George is afraid of my clothes, and won’t shake hands with me!” For a moment she hesitated, looking from one to the other of us—­then, all at once, laughing a little and blushing a little, she leaned forward and kissed me.

“Why, George!” said she, still blushing, “how fulish you be.  Mr. Peter were as much a gentleman in his leather apron as ever he is in his fine coat—­how fulish you be, George!” So proud George gave me his hand, all grimy as it was, rejoicing over me because of my good fortune and mourning over me because my smithing days were over.

“Ye see, Peter, when men ’as worked together—­and sorrowed together—­an’ fou’t together—­an’ knocked each other down—­like you an’ me—­it bean’t so easy to say ’good-by’—­so, if you must leave us—­why—­don’t let’s say it.”

“No, George, there shall be no ‘good-bys’ for either one of us, and I shall come back—­soon.  Until then, take my mare—­have her made comfortable for me, and now—­good night—­good night!”

And so, clasping their loving hands, I turned away, somewhat hurriedly, and left them.

There was no moon, but the night was luminous with stars, and, as I strode along, my eyes were often lifted to the “wonder of the heavens,” and I wondered which particular star was Charmian’s and which mine.

Reaching the Hollow, I paused to glance about me, as I ever did, before descending that leafy path; and the shadows were very black and a chill wind stirred among the leaves, so that I shivered, and wondered, for the first time, if I had come right —­if the cottage had been in Charmian’s mind when she wrote.