iar about face, figure, or expression, although Patsy
studied them hard to find some trace of the man she had been
journeying with.

With a final bewildered shake of the head her eyes met his coldly,
mockingly. "My name is Patricia O'Connell"--her voice was crisp and
tart; "it's the Irish for a short temper and a hot one. Now maybe you
will have the grace to favor me with yours."

"Just the tinker," he complied, amiably, "and very much at your
service." This was accompanied by a sweeping bow.

Patsy had marked that bow on two previous occasions, and it testified
undeniably to the man's identity. Yet Patsy's mind balked at
accepting it; it was too galling to her pride, too slanderous of her
past judgment and perceptibilities. A sudden rush of anger brought
her to her feet, and, coming over to the opposite side of the hearth,
she faced him, flushed, determined, and very dignified. It is to be
doubted if Patsy could have sustained the latter with any degree of
conviction if she could have seen herself. Straying strands of still
damp hair curled bewitchingly about her face, bringing out the
roundness of cheek and chin and the curious, guileless expression of
her eyes. Moreover, the coquettish gown she wore was entrancing; it
was a light blue, tunic affair with wide baby collar and cuffs, and a
Roman girdle; and she had found stockings to match, with white
buckskin pumps. It had been blind chance on her part--this making of
a toilet, but the effect was none the less adorable--and condemning
to dignity.

This was evidently appreciated by the tinker, for his face was an odd
mixture of grotesque solemnity and keen enjoyment. Patsy was
altogether too flustered to diagnose his expression, but it added
considerably to the temperature of the O'Connell temper. In view of
the civilized surroundings and her state of dignity Patsy had taken
to King's English with barely a hint of her native brogue.

"If you are the tinker--and I presume you are--I should very much
appreciate an explanation. Would you mind telling me how you happened
to be hanging onto that stump, in rags, and looking half-witted when
I--when I came by?"

"Why--just because I was a tinker," he laughed.

"Then what are you now?"

"Once a tinker, always a tinker. I'm just a good-for-nothing; good to
mend other people's broken pots, and little else; knowing more about
birds than human beings, and poor company for any one saving the very
generous-hearted."

Pat