then aloud: "Maybe ye are not knowing it, but
anything at all is likely to happen to ye to-day--on the road to
Arden. According to Willie Shakespeare--whom ye are not likely to be
acquainted with--it's a place where philosophers and banished dukes
and peasants and love-sick youths and lions and serpents all live
happily together under the 'Greenwood Tree.' Now, I'm the banished
duke's own daughter--only no one knows it; and ye--sure, ye can take
your choice between playing the younger brother--or the fool."

"The fool," said the tinker, solemnly; and then of a sudden he threw
back his head and laughed.

Patsy stopped still on the road and considered him narrowly.
"Couldn't ye laugh again?" she suggested when the laugh was ended.
"It improves ye wonderfully." An afterthought flashed in her mind.
"After all's said and done, the fool is the best part in the whole
play."

After this they tramped along in silence. The tinker kept a little in
advance, his head erect, his hands swinging loosely at his sides, his
eyes on nothing at all. He seemed oblivious of what lay back of him
or before him--and only half conscious of the companion at his side.
But Patsy's fancy was busy with a hundred things, while her eyes went
afield for every scrap of prettiness the country held. There were
meadows of brilliant daisies, broken by clumps of silver poplars,
white birches, and a solitary sentinel pine; and there was the
roadside tangle with its constant surprises of meadowsweet and
columbine, white violets--in the swampy places--and once in a while
an early wild rose.

"In Ireland," she mused, "the gorse would be out, fringing the
pastures, and on the roadside would be heartsease and faery thimbles,
and perhaps a few late primroses; and the meadow would be green with
corn." A faint wisp of a sigh escaped her at the thought, and the
tinker looked across at her questioningly. "Sure, it's my heart
hungering a bit for the bogland and a whiff of the turf smoke. This
exile idea is a grand one for a play, but it gets lonesome at times
in real life. Maybe ye are Irish yourself?"

"Maybe."

It was Patsy's turn to glance across at the tinker, but all she saw
was the far-away, wondering look that she had seen first in his face.
"Poor lad! Like as not he finds it hard remembering where he's from;
they all do. I'll not pester him again."

He looked up and caught her eyes upon him and smiled foolishly.

Patsy smiled back. "Do ye know, lad, I'v