I am at the forge, watching the deepening glow of the coals as I
ply the bellows; and, listening to their hoarse, not unmusical
drone, it seems like a familiar voice (or the voice of a familiar),
albeit a somewhat wheezy one, speaking to me in stertorous gasps,
something in this wise: "Charmian Brown--desires to thank--Mr. Smith but because thanks
--are so poor and small--and his service so great--needs must she
remember him--"
"Remember me!" said I aloud, and, letting go the shaft of the
bellows the better to think this over, it naturally followed that
the bellows grew suddenly dumb, whereupon I seized the handle and
recommenced blowing with a will.
"--remember him as a gentleman," wheezed the familiar.
"Psha!" I exclaimed.
"--yet oftener as a smith--"
"Hum!" said I.
"--and most of all--as a man."
"As a man!" said I, and, turning my back upon the bellows, I sat
down upon the anvil and, taking my chin in my hand, stared away
to where the red roof of old Amos's oast-house peeped through the
swaying green of leaves.
"As a man?" said I to myself again, and so fell a-dreaming of
this Charmian. And, in my mind, I saw her, not as she had first
appeared, tall and fierce and wild, but as she had been when she
stooped to bind up the hurt in my brow--with her deep eyes
brimful of tenderness, and her mouth sweet and compassionate.
Beautiful eyes she had, though whether they were blue or brown
or black, I could not for the life of me remember; only I knew
I could never forget the look they had held when she gave that
final pat to the bandage. And here I found that I was turning
a little locket round and round in my fingers, a little,
old-fashioned, heart-shaped locket with its quaint inscription: "Hee who myne heart would keepe for long
Shall be a gentil man and strong."
I was sitting thus, plunged in a reverie, when a shadow fell
across the floor, and looking up I beheld Prudence, and
straightway, slipping the locket back into the bosom of my shirt,
I rose to my feet, somewhat shamefaced to be caught thus idle.
Her face was troubled, and her eyes red, as from recent tears,
while in her hand she held a crumpled paper.
"Mr. Peter--" she began, and then stopped, staring at me.
"Well, Prudence?"
"You--you've seen him!"
"Him--whom do you mean?"
"Black Jarge!"