Hereupon the smithy became full of the merry din of my hammer, and while I worked the Ancient smoked his pipe and watched me, informing me, between whiles, that the Jersey cow was "in calf," that the hops seemed more than usually forward, and that he had waked that morning with a "touch o' the rheumatics," but, otherwise, he was unusually silent; moreover, each time that I happened to glance up, it was to find him regarding me with a certain fixity of eye, which at another time would have struck me as portentous. "Ye be palish this marnin', Peter!" said he, dabbing at me suddenly with his pipe-stem; "shouldn't wonder if you was to tell me as your appetite was bad; come now—ye didn't eat much of a breakfus' this marnin', did ye?" "I don't think I did, Ancient." "A course not!" said the—old man, with a nod of profound approval—"it aren't to be expected. Let's see, it be all o' four months since I found ye, bean't it?" "Four months and a few odd days," I nodded, and fell to work upon my glowing iron bar: "Ye'll make a tidy smith one o' these days, Peter," said the old man encouragingly, as I straightened my back and plunged the iron back into the fire. "Thank you, Ancient." "Ay—you've larned to use a 'ammer purty well, considerin', though you be wastin' your opportoonities shameful, Peter, shameful." "Am I, Ancient?" "Ay, that ye be—moon can't last much longer—she be on the wane a'ready!" "Moon?" said I, staring. "Ah, moon!" nodded the old man; "theer's nowt like a moon, Peter, an' if she be at the full so much the better." "But what have the moon and I to do with each other, Ancient?" "Old I be, Peter, a old, old man, but I were young once, an' I tell 'ee the moon 'as a lot more to do wi' it than some folks think—why, Lord love 'ee! theer wouldn't be near so many children a-playin' in the sun if it wasn't for the moon!" "Ancient," said I, "what might you be driving at?" "Love, Peter!" "Love!" said I, letting go the handle of the bellows. "An' marriage, Peter." "What in the world—put—such thoughts into your head?" "You did, Peter." "I?" "Ah!—some men is born lovers, Peter, an' you be one. I never see such eyes as yourn afore, so burnin' 'ot they be. Ah, Peter! some maid will see the lovelight aflame in 'em some day, an' droop 'er 'ead an' blush an' tremble—for she'll know, Peter, she'll know; maids was made to be loved, Peter—" "But, Ancient, I am not the kind of man women would be attracted by. I love books and solitude, and am called a—pedant! and, besides, I am not of a loving sort—"