mer. Otherwise--there were her wits. The very thought of them
wrung a pitiful little groan from Patsy.

"Faith! I've been overworking Dan's legacy long enough, I'm thinking.
Poor wee things! They're needing rest and nourishment for a while,"
and she patted her forehead sympathetically.

Of one thing she was certain--if her wits must still serve her, they
should do so within the confines of some respectable community; in
other words, she would settle down and work at something that would
provide her with bed and board until the fall bookings began. And,
the road and the tinker would become as a dream, fading with the
summer into a sweet, illusive memory--and a photograph. Patsy felt in
the pocket of her Norfolk for the latter with a sudden eagerness. It
had been forgotten since she had found the tinker himself; but, now
that the road was lengthening between them again, it brought her a
surprising amount of comfort.

"There are three things I shall have to be asking him--if he ever
fetches up in Arden, himself," mused Patsy as she loitered along.
"And, what's more, this time I'll be getting an answer to every one
of them or I'm no relation of Dan's. First, I'll know the fate of the
brown dress; he hadn't a rag of it about him--that's certain. Next,
there's that breakfast with the lady's-slippers. How did he come by
it? And, last of all, how ever did this picture come on the
mantel-shelf of a closed cottage where he knew the way of breaking in
and what clothes would be hanging in the chamber closets? 'Tis all
too great a mystery--"

"Why, Miss O'Connell--what luck!"

Patsy had been so deep in her musing that a horse and rider had come
upon her unnoticed. She turned quickly to see the rider dismounting
just back of her; it was Gregory Jessup.

"The top o' the morning to ye!" She broke into a glad laugh, blessing
that luck, herself, which had broken into her disquieting thoughts
and provided at least fair company and some news--perhaps. She held
out her hand in hearty welcome. "Are ye 'up so early or down so
late'?"

"I might ask that, myself. Is it the habit of celebrated Irish
actresses to tramp miles between sun-up and breakfast?"

"'Tis a habit more likely to fasten itself on French cooks, I'm
thinking," and Patsy smiled.

"Then how is a man to account for you?"

"He'd best not try; I'm a mortial poor person to account for. Maybe
I'm up early--getting my lines for the next act."

"Of course. What a stupid