ow any better than the first day he came. A certain wall
of dignity was ever between him and them.

Half an hour before dark, the yard was thronged with people. They
listened with smiles or a faint ripple of merry feeling as he
greeted each.

"Good evening, Mrs. Beach," he would say. "Ah! the snow is falling
on thy head. An' the sunlight upon thine, dear girl," he added,
taking the hand of the woman's daughter.

"An' here's Mr. Tilly back from the far west," he continued. "How
fare ye, sor?"

"I'm well, but a little too fat," said Thurston Tilly.

"Well, sor, unless it make thy heart heavy, be content.

"Good evening, Mrs. Hooper,--that is a cunning hand with the pies.

"Ah, Mrs. Rood, may the mouse never leave thy meal bag with a tear
in his eye.

"Not a gray hair in thy head, Miss Tower, nor even a gray thought.

"An' here's Mrs. Barbour--'twill make me sweat to carry me pride
now. How goes the battle?"

"The Lord has given me sore affliction," said she.

"Nay, dear woman," said the tinker in that tone so kindly and
resistless, "do not think the Lord is hitting thee over the ears.
It is the law o' life.

"Good evening, Elder, what is the difference between thy work an'
mine?"

"I hadn't thought of that."

"Ah, thine is the dial of eternity--mine that o' time." And so he
greeted all and sat down, filling his pipe.

"Now, Weston, out with the merry fiddle," said he, "an' see it give
us happy thoughts."

A few small boys were gathered about him, and the tinker began to
hum an Irish reel, fingers and forearm flying as he played an
imaginary fiddle. But, even now, his dignity had not left him.
The dance began. All were in the little house or at the two doors,
peering in, save Darrel, who sat with his pipe, and Thurston Tilly,
who was telling him tales of the far west. In the lull of sound
that followed the first figure, Trove came to look out upon them.
A big, golden moon had risen above the woods, and the light and
music and merry voices had started a sleepy twitter up in the dome
of Robin's Inn.

"Do you see that scar?" he heard Tilly saying.

"I do, sor."

"Well, a man shot me there."

"An' what for?" the tinker inquired.

"I was telling him a story. It cured me. Do you carry a gun?"

"I do not, sor."

"Wal, then, I'll tell you about the man I work for."

Tunk, who had been outside the door in his best clothes, but who,
since he put them on, had looked as if he doubted the i