"Prudence," said I, "it is the only way, so far as I can see, of saving George from himself; and no sweet, pure maid need be ashamed to tell her love, especially to such a man as this, who worships the very ground that little shoe of yours has once pressed."
She glanced up at me, under her wet lashes, as I said this, and a soft light beamed in her eyes, and a smile hovered upon her red lips.
"Do he—really, Mr. Peter?"
"Indeed he does, Prudence, though I think you must know that without my telling you." So she stooped above the anvil, blushing a little, and sighing a little, and crying a little, and, with fingers that trembled somewhat, to be sure, wrote these four words:
"George, I love you."
"What now, Mr. Peter?" she inquired, seeing me begin to unbuckle my leather apron.
"Now," I answered, "I am going to look for Black George."
"No!—no!" she cried, laying her hands upon my arm, "no! no! if 'ee do meet him, he—he'll kill 'ee!"
"I don't think he will," said I, shaking my head.
"Oh, don't go!—don't go!" she pleaded, shaking my arm in her eagerness; "he be so strong and wild and quick—he'll give 'ee no chance to speak—'twill be murder!"