ar cousin?"

"Do you see that man and boy, with a knife-grinder's wheel, just in
sight now?"

"Yes, to be sure I do; but what of them? Have they been insolent?"

"Insolent! they never saw me; they had no idea that I was here. I heard
voices as I came down the walk, so I moved softly, and when I gained the
seat, there was somebody reading poetry so beautifully; I never heard
any one read with such correct emphasis and clear pronunciation. And
then he stopped, and talked to the boy about the Greek and Latin poets,
and quoted Shakespeare. There must be some mystery."

"Well, but if there is, what has that to do with the travelling
tinkers?"

"What! why it was the travelling tinker himself; dearest; but he cannot
be a tinker; for I heard him say that he expected letters of
consequence, and no travelling tinker could do that."

"Why, no; I doubt if most of them can read at all."

"Now, I would give my little finger to know who that person is."

"Did you see his face?"

"No; he never turned this way; the boy did when they were some distance
off. It's very strange."

"What was he reading?"

"I don't know; it was very beautiful. I wonder if he will ever come
this way again? If he does--"

"Well, Melissa, and if he does?"

"My scissors want grinding very badly; they won't cut a bit."

"Why, Melissa, you don't mean to fall in love with a tinker?" said
Araminta, laughing.

"He is no tinker, I'm sure; but why is he disguised? I should like to
know."

"Well, but I came out to tell you that your father wants you. Come
along."

The two young ladies then returned to the house, but the mystery of the
morning was broached more than once, and canvassed in every possible
way.

Spikeman, as soon as he had returned to the cottage, took out his
writing materials to concoct an epistle. After some time in correcting,
he made out a fair copy, which he read to Joey.

"`I tremble lest at the first moment you cast your eyes over the page,
you throw it away without deigning to peruse it; and yet there is
nothing in it which could raise a blush on the cheek of a modest
maiden. If it be a crime to have seen you by chance, to have watched
you by stealth, to consider hallowed every spot you visit--nay, more,
if it be a crime to worship at the shrine of beauty and of innocence,
or, to speak more boldly, to adore you--then am I guilty. You will
ask, why I resort to a clandestine step. Simply, because,