"Well then," continued the old man, "'ere's what I was a-comin' to—Prue 's been an' fell in love wi' some 'un at last." Black George's pipe shivered to fragments on the floor, and as he leaned forward I saw that his great hands were tightly clenched. "Gaffer," said he, in a strangled voice, "what do 'ee mean?" "I means what I says, Jarge." "How do 'ee know?" "Bean't I the lass's gran'feyther?" "Be ye sure, Gaffer—quite sure?" "Ay—sartin sure—twice this week, an' once the week afore she forgot to put any salt in the soup—an' that speaks wollums, Jarge, wollums!" Here, having replaced his snuff-box, the Ancient put on his hat, nodded, and bobbled away. As for Black George, he sat there, staring blindly before him long after the tapping of the Ancient's stick had died away, nor did he heed me when I spoke, wherefore I laid my hand upon his shoulder. "Come, George," said I, "another hour, and the screen will be finished." He started, and, drawing from my hand, looked up at me very strangely. "No, Peter," he mumbled, "I aren't a-goin' to work no more tonight," and as he spoke he rose to his feet. "What—are you going?" said I, as he crossed to the door. "Ay, I'm a-goin'." Now, as he went towards his cottage, I saw him reel, and stagger, like a drunken man. CHAPTER XXXIII IN WHICH WE DRAW YET NEARER TO THE END OF THIS FIRST BOOK It is not my intention to chronicle all those minor happenings that befell me, now or afterward, lest this history prove wearisome to the reader (on the which head I begin to entertain grave doubts already). Suffice it then that as the days grew into weeks, and the weeks into months, by perseverance I became reasonably expert at my trade, so that, some two months after my meeting with Black George, I could shoe a horse with any smith in the country. But, more than this, the people with whom I associated day by day—honest, loyal, and simple-hearted as they were, contented with their lot, and receiving all things so unquestioningly and thankfully, filled my life, and brought a great calm to a mind that had, hitherto, been somewhat self-centred and troubled by pessimistic doubts and fantastic dreams culled from musty pages. What book is there to compare with the great Book of Life—whose pages are forever a-turning, wherein are marvels and wonders undreamed; things to weep over, and some few to laugh at, if one but has eyes in one's head to see withal? To walk through the whispering cornfields, or the long, green alleys of the hop-gardens with Simon, who combines innkeeping with farming, to hear him tell of fruit and flower, of bird and beast, is better than to read the Georgics of Virgil. To sit in the sunshine and watch the Ancient, pipe in mouth, to hearken to his animadversions upon Life, and Death, and Humanity, is better than the cynical wit of Rochefoucauld, or a page out of honest old Montaigne.