"You always loved Black George, didn't you?"
"Yes, Mr. Peter."
"And you love him still, don't you?" A moment's silence, then:
"Yes, Mr. Peter."
"Excellent!" said I. Her head was raised a trifle, and one tearful eye looked at me over her fingers. "I had always hoped you did," I continued, "for his sake, and for yours, and in my way, a very blundering way as it seems now, I have tried to bring you two together." Prudence only sobbed. "But things are not hopeless yet. I think I can see a means of straightening out this tangle."
"Oh, if we only could!" sobbed Prudence. "Ye see, I were very cruel to him, Mr. Peter!"
"Just a little, perhaps," said I, and, while she dabbed at her pretty eyes with her snowy apron, I took pen and ink from the shelf where I kept them, which, together with George's letter, I set upon the anvil. "Now," said I, in answer to her questioning look, "write down just here, below where George signed his name, what you told me a moment ago."
"You mean, that I—"
"That you love him, yes."
"Oh, Mr. Peter!"