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A black cavern gaped out on the grey day, and from within came chime of anvil and hoarse breath of bellows. But it was not the spluttering soft red-hot iron that caught Tim’s eye. A lurid figure appeared and disappeared like magic as each pulse of the bellows woke a flame that lighted up the forge. This vision now gleamed in the blaze, then faded as the fire faded, and Timothy knew it for his pixie queen of the preceding night. Such an unexpected incident unnerved him; for a brief moment he thought of riding on; but he had already drawn rein and now dismounted, his heart throbbing like the fire.

Sarah had brought her father some refreshments from home, and was amusing herself, as she had often done before, with the great leathern bellows, while a lad worked at the anvil and the smith rested from his labour and ate and drank.

Smith Belworthy gloried more than common in two possessions; his daughter and his bass viol. Sometimes he mentioned one first, sometimes the other. To-day, having greeted Tim with great friendship and not forgetting the incident of the previous night, he bid Sarah step forward, much to her mortification, and drew young Chave’s attention to her as though she had been some item in an exhibition.