An', if you was to ax me, I should say as it died because its 'eart were broke, Peter. Yes, trees is very like men, an' the older you grow the more you'll see it." It was thus we talked, or rather, the Ancient talked and I listened, until we reached Sissinghurst. At the door of the smithy we stopped. "Peter," said the old man, staring very hard at a button on my coat. "Well, Ancient?" "What about that theer—poor, old, rusty—stapil?" "Why, it is still above the door, Ancient; you must have seen it this morning." "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. CHAPTER VI IN WHICH I LEARN OF AN IMPENDING DANGER 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.