“He’s a bit of a fool, by that token,” hazarded Billy.
The blacksmith, when he laughed at all, laughed from his lungs outward. “Always guessed it, Priscilla,” said he, making his anvil ring. “Billy’s a child, but old in wisdom. Bit of a fool I’ll be to the end, I reckon.”
“I’m playing, David,” said Billy, while the blacksmith halted in his work to steal a glance at Priscilla. “Get ye on with your work o’ making horseshoes, if I’m playing the tune to ye.”
Again David laughed. “Keeps me at it, Priscilla,” he said. “Never met a taskmaster so hard to drive a man as Billy.”
“We want ye at Good Intent,” said Priscilla, laughing too—and her laughter was a pleasant thing to hear, reminding David again of throstles when the spring comes in.
“You can ease your hold of the bellows, Billy,” said David, with an alacrity that was patent to the girl, modest and proud as she was. “When I am called to Good Intent Farm—well, I go, most times, and ne’er ask what’s wanted, and leave smithy-work behind.”
“Robbing me o’ my playtime,” panted Billy the Fool, as he mopped his forehead.
He looked up at David, and his blue eyes were wistful as a dog’s asking for commands.
“Ye’ll be idle now,” said the blacksmith. “Play first, laddie, and idleness after.”
“Ay, you’re right,—you’re always right, saving odd times, when you’re a Fool Billy like myself. Miss Priscilla has a trick o’ making ye daft-witted, I’ve noticed.”