Beau Brocade

John Stich too had heard that laugh; for a moment he paused in his work, straightened hisbroad back and leant his heavy hammer upon the anvil, whilst a pleasant smile lit up hisbronzed and rugged countenance."There goes the Captain," he said, "I wonder now what's tickling him. Ah!" he addedwith a short sigh, "the soldiers, maybe. He doesn't like soldiers much, doesn't the Captain."He sighed again and looked across to where, on a rough wooden bench, sat a youngman with head resting on his hand, his blue eyes staring moodily before him. The dress thisyoung man wore was a counterpart of that in which John himself was arrayed; roughworsted stockings, thick flannel shirt with sleeves well tucked up over fine, muscular arms, and a large, greasy, well-worn leather apron, denoting the blacksmith's trade. But thoughthe hands and face were covered with grime, a more than casual observer would soon havenoticed that those same hands were slender and shapely, the fingers long, the nails neatlytrimmed, whilst the face, anxious and careworn though it was, had in it a look of habitualcommand, of pride not yet crushed out of ken. John Stich gazed at him for awhile, whilst a look of pity and anxiety saddened hishonest face. The smith was a man of few words, he said nothing then, and presently thesound of his hammer upon the anvil once more filled the forge with its pleasant echo. Butthough John's tongue was slow, his ear was quick, and in one moment he had perceived thedull thud made by the Corporal's squad as, having parted from Mr Inch at the cross-roads, the soldiers ploughed their way through the mud round the cottage and towards the forge."Hist!" said John, in a rapid whisper, pointing to the fire, "the bellows! quick