"Why, George!" said she, still blushing, "how fulish you be. Mr. Peter were as much a gentleman in his leather apron as ever he is in his fine coat—how fulish you be, George!" So proud George gave me his hand, all grimy as it was, rejoicing over me because of my good fortune and mourning over me because my smithing days were over. "Ye see, Peter, when men 'as worked together—and sorrowed together—an' fou't together—an' knocked each other down—like you an' me—it bean't so easy to say 'good-by'—so, if you must leave us—why—don't let's say it." "No, George, there shall be no 'good-bys' for either one of us, and I shall come back—soon. Until then, take my mare—have her made comfortable for me, and now—good night—good night!" And so, clasping their loving hands, I turned away, somewhat hurriedly, and left them. There was no moon, but the night was luminous with stars, and, as I strode along, my eyes were often lifted to the "wonder of the heavens," and I wondered which particular star was Charmian's and which mine. Reaching the Hollow, I paused to glance about me, as I ever did, before descending that leafy path; and the shadows were very black and a chill wind stirred among the leaves, so that I shivered, and wondered, for the first time, if I had come right—if the cottage had been in Charmian's mind when she wrote. Then I descended the path, hurrying past a certain dark spot. And, coming at last within sight of the cottage, I paused again, and shivered again, for the windows were dark and the door shut. But the latch yielded readily beneath my hand, so I went in, and closed and barred the door behind me. For upon the hearth a fire burned with a dim, red glow that filled the place with shadows, and the shadows were very deep. "Charmian!" said I, "oh, Charmian, are you there—have I guessed right?" I heard a rustle close beside me, and, in the gloom, came a hand to meet and clasp my own; wherefore I stooped and kissed those slender fingers, drawing her into the fireglow; and her eyes were hidden by their lashes, and the glow of the fire seemed reflected in her cheeks. "The candles were so—bright, Peter," she whispered. "Yes." "And so—when I heard you coming—" "You heard me?" "I was sitting on the bench outside, Peter." "And, when you heard me—you put the candles out?" "They seemed so—very bright, Peter." "And shut the door?" "I only—just—closed it, Peter." She was still wrapped in her cloak, as she had been when I first saw her, wherefore I put back the hood from her face. And behold! as I did so, her hair fell down, rippling over my arm, and covering us both in its splendor, as it had done once before. "Indeed—you have glorious hair!" said I. "It seems wonderful to think that you are my wife. I can scarcely believe it—even yet!" "Why, I had meant you should marry me from the first, Peter." "Had you?" "Do you think I should ever have come back to this dear solitude otherwise?"