Swift we flew, with the wind before, and the dust behind, past wayside inns where besmocked figures paused in their grave discussions to turn and watch us by; past smiling field and darkling copse; past lonely cottage and village green; through Sevenoaks and Tonbridge, with never a stop; up Pembry hill, and down, galloping so lightly, so easily, over that hard, familiar road, which I had lately tramped with so much toil and pain; and so, as evening fell, to Sissinghurst. A dreamy, sleepy place is Sissinghurst at all times, for its few cottages, like its inn, are very old, and great age begets dreams. But, when the sun is low, and the shadows creep out, when the old inn blinks drowsy eyes at the cottages, and they blink back drowsily at the inn, like the old friends they are; when distant cows low at gates and fences; when sheep-bells tinkle faintly; when the weary toiler, seated sideways on his weary horse, fares homewards, nodding sleepily with every plodding hoof-fall, but rousing to give one a drowsy "good night," then who can resist the somnolent charm of the place, save only the "Bull" himself, snorting down in lofty contempt—as rolling of eye, as curly of horn, as stiff as to tail as any indignant bull ever was, or shall be. But as I rode, watching the evening deepen about me, soft and clear rose the merry chime of hammer and anvil, and, turning aside to the smithy, I paused there, and, stooping my head, looked in at the door. "George!" said I. He started erect, and, dropping hammer and tongs, came out, running, then stopped suddenly, as one abashed. "Oh, friend!" said I, "don't you know me?" "Why—Peter—" he stammered, and broke off. "Have you no greeting for me, George?" "Ay, ay—I heerd you was free, Peter, and I was glad—glad, because you was the man as I loved, an' I waited—ay, I've been waitin' for 'ee to come back. But now you be so changed—so fine an' grand—an' I be all black wi' soot from the fire—oh, man! ye bean't my Peter no more—" "Never say that, George—never say that," I cried, and, leaping from the saddle, I would have caught his hand in mine, but he drew back. "You be so fine an' grand, Peter, an' I be all sooty from the fire!" he repeated. "I'd like to just wash my 'ands first." "Oh, Black George!" said I, "dear George." "Be you rich now, Peter?" "Yes, I suppose so." "A gentleman wi' 'orses an' 'ouses an' servants?" "Well—what of it?" "I'd—like to—wash my 'ands first, if so be you don't mind, Peter." "George," said I, "don't be a fool!" Now, as we stood thus, fronting each other in the doorway, I heard a light step upon the road behind me, and, turning, beheld Prudence. "Oh, Prue, George is afraid of my clothes, and won't shake hands with me!" For a moment she hesitated, looking from one to the other of us—then, all at once, laughing a little and blushing a little, she leaned forward and kissed me.