There were now tears in the eyes of Polly.
"I do not think he loves me any more," said she, her lips trembling.
"Speak not so, dear child; indeed he loves thee."
"I have done everything to please him," said Polly, in broken words, her face covered with her handkerchief.
"I wondered what was the matter with you, Polly," said her mother, tenderly.
"Dear, dear child!" said the tinker, rising and patting her head.
"The chaplet on thy brow an' thee weeping!—fairest flower of all!"
"I have wished that I was dead;" the words came in a little moan between sobs.
"Because: Love hath led thee to the great river o' tears? Nay, child, 'tis a winding river an' crosses all the roads."
He had taken her handkerchief, and with a tender touch was drying her eyes.
"Now I can see thee smiling, an' thy lashes, child—they are like the spray o' the fern tip when the dew is on it."