"Wait!" said she, "wait!" And turning, she fled through the doorway and across the road, swift and graceful as any bird, and presently was back again, with something hidden in her apron. "He be a strong man, and terrible in his wrath," said she, "and I—love him, but—take this wi' you, and if it—must be—use it, because I _do_ love him." Now, as she said this, she drew from her apron that same brass-bound pistol that had served me so well against the "ghost" and thrust it into my hand. "Take it, Mr. Peter—take it, but—oh!"—here a great sob choked her voice—"don't—don't use it—if—if you can help it, for my sake." "Why, Prue!" said I, touching her bowed head very tenderly, "how can you think I would go up against my friend with death in my hand—Heaven forbid!" So I laid aside the weapon and, clapping on my hat, strode out into the glory of the summer morning, but left her weeping in the shadows. CHAPTER VII WHICH NARRATES A SOMEWHAT REMARKABLE CONVERSATION To find a man in Cambourne Woods, even so big a man as Black George, would seem as hard a matter as to find the needle in the proverbial "bottle of hay;" the sun crept westward, the day declined into evening, yet, hungry though I was, I persevered in my search, not so much in the hope of finding him (in the which I knew I must be guided altogether by chance), as from a disinclination to return, just yet, to the cottage. "It would be miserable there at this hour," I told myself, "miserable and lonely." Yet why should I be lonely; I, who had gloried in my solitude hitherto? Whence then had come this change? While I stood thus, seeking an answer to this self-imposed question and finding none, I heard some one approach, whistling, and, looking about, beheld a fellow with an axe upon his shoulder, who strode along at a good pace, keeping time to his whistle. He gave me a cheery greeting as he came up, but without stopping. "You seem in a hurry," said I. "Ah!" grinned the man, over his shoulder, "'cause why?—'cause I be goin' 'ome." "Home!" said I. "To supper," he nodded, and, forthwith, began to whistle again, while I stood listening till the clear notes had died away. "Home!" said I for the second time, and there came upon me a feeling of desolation such as I had never known even in my neglected boyhood's days. Home! truly a sweet word, a comfortable word, the memory of which has been as oil and wine to many a sick and weary traveler upon this Broad Highway of life; a little word, and yet one which may come betwixt a man and temptation, covering him like a shield. "Roof and walls, be they cottage or mansion, do not make home," thought I, "rather is it the atmosphere of mutual love, the intimacies of thought, the joys and sorrows endured together, and the never-failing sympathy—that bond invisible yet stronger than death." And, because I had, hitherto, known nothing of this, I was possessed of a great envy for this axe-fellow as I walked on through the wood.