"Excellent!" said I. Her head was raised a trifle, and one tearful eye looked at me over her fingers. "I had always hoped you did," I continued, "for his sake, and for yours, and in my way, a very blundering way as it seems now, I have tried to bring you two together." Prudence only sobbed. "But things are not hopeless yet. I think I can see a means of straightening out this tangle." "Oh, if we only could!" sobbed Prudence. "Ye see, I were very cruel to him, Mr. Peter!" "Just a little, perhaps," said I, and, while she dabbed at her pretty eyes with her snowy apron, I took pen and ink from the shelf where I kept them, which, together with George's letter, I set upon the anvil. "Now," said I, in answer to her questioning look, "write down just here, below where George signed his name, what you told me a moment ago." "You mean, that I—" "That you love him, yes." "Oh, Mr. Peter!" "Prudence," said I, "it is the only way, so far as I can see, of saving George from himself; and no sweet, pure maid need be ashamed to tell her love, especially to such a man as this, who worships the very ground that little shoe of yours has once pressed." She glanced up at me, under her wet lashes, as I said this, and a soft light beamed in her eyes, and a smile hovered upon her red lips. "Do he—really, Mr. Peter?" "Indeed he does, Prudence, though I think you must know that without my telling you." So she stooped above the anvil, blushing a little, and sighing a little, and crying a little, and, with fingers that trembled somewhat, to be sure, wrote these four words: "George, I love you." "What now, Mr. Peter?" she inquired, seeing me begin to unbuckle my leather apron. "Now," I answered, "I am going to look for Black George." "No!—no!" she cried, laying her hands upon my arm, "no! no! if 'ee do meet him, he—he'll kill 'ee!" "I don't think he will," said I, shaking my head. "Oh, don't go!—don't go!" she pleaded, shaking my arm in her eagerness; "he be so strong and wild and quick—he'll give 'ee no chance to speak—'twill be murder!" "Prudence," said I, "my mind is set on it. I am going—for your sake, for his sake, and my own;" saying which, I loosed her hands gently and took down my coat from its peg. "Dear God!" she exclaimed, staring down at the floor with wide eyes, "if he were to kill 'ee—!" "Well," said I, "my search would be ended and I should be a deal wiser in all things than I am to-day." "And he—would be hanged!" said Prudence, shuddering. "Probably—poor fellow!" said I. At this she glanced quickly up, and once again the crimson dyed her cheeks. "Oh, Mr. Peter, forgive me! I—I were only thinkin' of Jarge, and—" "And quite right too, Prudence," I nodded; "he is indeed worth any good woman's thoughts; let it be your duty to think of him, and for him, henceforth."