PRISCILLA OF THE GOOD INTENT PRISCILLA OF THE GOOD INTENT A ROMANCE OF THE GREY FELLS BY HALLIWELL SUTCLIFFE Author of “Mistress Barbara,” “Benedick in Arcady,” etc. BOSTON LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 1909 _Copyright, 1908_, BY HALLIWELL SUTCLIFFE. _Copyright, 1909_, BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY. _All rights reserved_ Printers S. J. PARKHILL & CO., BOSTON, U.S.A. PRISCILLA OF THE GOOD INTENT CHAPTER I The blacksmith’s forge stood just this side of the village as you entered it from Shepston, and David Blake, the smith, was blowing lustily at his bellows, while the sweat dripped down his face. The cool of a spring morning came through the doorway, against which leaned a heavy, slouching lad. “Te-he, David the Smith! Sparks do go scrambling up chimney,” said Billy the Fool, with a fat and empty laugh. They called him Billy the Fool, for old affection’s sake, with no sense of reproach; for the old ways of thought had a fast hold on Garth village, and a natural was held in a certain awe, as being something midway between a prophet and a child. “Ay, sparks are scrambling up. ’Tis a way they have, Billy,” answered the other cheerily. “What’s your news?” Again Billy laughed, but cunningly this time. “Grand news--all about myself. Was up at sunrise, and been _doing naught_ ever since. I’m main fond of doing naught, David. Seems to trickle down your body, does idleness, like good ale.” The blacksmith loosed his hold on the bellows’ handles and turned about, while he passed a hand across his forehead. “Is there nought ye like better than idleness?” he asked. “Think now, Billy--just ponder over it.” “Well, now,” answered the other, after a silence, “there’s playing--what ye might call playing at a right good game. Could ye think of some likely pastime, David?” “Ay, could I. Blowing bellows is the grandest frolic ever I came across.” Billy was wary, after his own fashion, and he looked at the blacksmith hard, his child’s eyes--blue and unclouded by the storms of life--showing big beneath their heavy brows of reddish-brown. “I doubt ’tis work, David,” he said dispassionately. “Nay, now! Would I ask _thee_ to work, lad? Fond o’ thee as I am, and knowing labour’s harmful to thee?” “I shouldn’t like to be trapped into work. ’Twould scare me when I woke o’ nights and thought of it.” “See ye, then, Billy”--blowing the bellows gently--“is it work to make yon sparks go, blue and green and red, as fast as ever ye like to drive ’em? Play, I call it, and I’ve a mind, now I come to think on’t, just to keep ye out o’ the game, and go on playing it myself.” Billy drew nearer, with an anxious look. “Ye wouldn’t do that, or ye’d not be blacksmith David,” he said, with unerring knowledge of the other’s kindliness. “Te-he! ’Tis just a bit o’ sporting--I hadn’t thought of it i’ that light.”