"Oh, ah! I seed it, Peter, I seed it," answered the old man,
shifting his gaze to a rolling white cloud above. "I give it a
glimp' over, Peter, but what do 'ee think of it?"
"Well," said I, aware of the fixity of his gaze and the wistful
note in his voice, "it is certainly older and rustier than it was."
"Rustier, Peter?"
"Much rustier!" Very slowly a smile dawned on the wrinkled old
face, and very slowly the eyes were lowered till they met mine.
"Eh, lad! but I be glad o' that--we be all growin' older, Peter,
an'--though I be a wonnerful man for my age, an' so strong as a
cart-'orse, Peter, still, I du sometimes feel like I be growin'
rustier wi' length o' days, an' 'tis a comfort to know as that
theer stapil's a-growin' rustier along wi' me. Old I be, but t'
stapil's old too, Peter, an' I be waitin' for the day when it
shall rust itself away altogether; an' when that day comes,
Peter, then I'll say, like the patriach in the Bible: 'Lord, now
lettest thou thy servant depart in peace!' Amen, Peter!"
"Amen!" said I. And so, having watched the old man totter across
to "The Bull," I turned into the smithy and, set about lighting
the fire.