Trove had missed not a word nor even a turn of the eye in all that scene. After years of acquaintance with the tinker he had not yet ventured a question as to his life history. The difference of age and a certain masterly reserve in the old gentleman had seemed to discourage it. A prying tongue in a mere youth would have met unpleasant obstacles with Darrel. Never until that day had he spoken freely of his past in the presence of the young man.
"I must see you again," said the tragedian, rising. "Of those parts I try to play, which do you most like?"
"St. Paul," said Darrel, quickly. "Last night, sor, in this great theatre, we heard the voice o' the prophet. Ah, sor, it was like a trumpet on the walls of eternity. I commend to thee the part o' St. Paul. Next to that—of all thy parts, Lear."
"Lear?" said Forrest, rising. "I am to play it this autumn. Come, then, to New York. Give me your address, and I'll send for you."
"Sor," said Darrel, thoughtfully, "I can give thee much o' me love
but little o' me time. Nay, there'd be trouble among the clocks.
I'd be ashamed to look them in the face. Nay,—I thank thee,—but
I must mind the clocks."
The great player smiled with amusement.
"Then," said he, "I shall have to come and see you play your part.
Till then, sir, God give you happiness."
"Once upon a time," said Darrel, as he held the hand of the player, "a weary traveller came to the gate o' Heaven, seeking entrance.
"'What hast thou in thy heart?' said the good St. Peter.
"'The record o' great suffering an' many prayers,' said the poor man. 'I pray thee now, give me the happiness o' Heaven.'