And her presence was reflected everywhere, and, if ever the kitchen of an inn possessed a heart to lose, then, beyond all doubt, this kitchen had lost its heart to Prue long since; even the battered cutlasses crossed upon the wall, the ponderous jack above the hearth, with its legend: ANNO DOMINI 1643, took on a brighter sheen to greet her when she came, and as for the pots and pans, they fairly twinkled.
But today Prue's eyes were red, and her lips were all a-droop, the which, though her smile was brave and ready, the Ancient was quick to notice.
"Why, Prue, lass, you've been weepin'!"
"Yes, grandfer."
"Your pretty eyes be all swole—red they be; what's the trouble?"
"Oh! 'tis nothing, dear, 'tis just a maid's fulishness—never mind me, dear."
"Ah! but I love 'ee, Prue—come, kiss me—theer now, tell me all about it—all about it, Prue."
"Oh, grandfer!" said she, from the hollow of his shoulder, "'tis just—Jarge!" The old man grew very still, his mouth opened slowly, and closed with a snap.
"Did 'ee—did 'ee say—Jarge, Prue? Is it—breekin' your 'eart ye be for that theer poachin' Black Jarge? To think—as my Prue should come down to a poachin'—"
Prudence slipped from his encircling arm and stood up very straight and proud—there were tears thick upon her lashes, but she did not attempt to wipe them away.