I felt the smith's grip relax, his arms dropped to his sides, while a deep, red glow crept up his cheeks till it was lost in the clustering curls of gleaming, yellow hair.
"Why, Prue—" he began, in a strangely altered voice, and stopped. The fire was gone from his eyes as they rested upon her, and he made a movement as though he would have reached out his hand to her, but checked himself.
"Why, Prue—" he said again, but choked suddenly, and, turning away, strode back towards his forge without another word. On he went, looking neither to right nor left, and I thought there was something infinitely woebegone and pitiful in the droop of his head.
Now as I looked from his forlorn figure to the beautiful, flushed face of the girl, I saw her eyes grow wonderfully soft and sweet, and brim over with tears. And, when Black George had betaken himself back to his smithy, she also turned, and, crossing swiftly to the inn, vanished through its open doorway.
"She 've a fine sperrit, 'ave that darter o' yourn, Simon, a fine sperrit. Oh! a fine sperrit as ever was!" chuckled the Ancient.
"Prue aren't afeard o' Black Jarge—never was," returned Simon; "she can manage un—allus could; you'll mind she could allus tame Black Jarge wi' a look, Gaffer."
"Ah! she 'm a gran'darter to be proud on, be Prue," nodded the Ancient, "an' proud I be tu!"
"What," said I, "is she your daughter, Simon?"
"Ay, for sure."
"And your granddaughter, Ancient?"