"Ah, Mrs. Rood, may the mouse never leave thy meal bag with a tear in his eye.
"Not a gray hair in thy head, Miss Tower, nor even a gray thought.
"An' here's Mrs. Barbour—'twill make me sweat to carry me pride now. How goes the battle?"
"The Lord has given me sore affliction," said she.
"Nay, dear woman," said the tinker in that tone so kindly and resistless, "do not think the Lord is hitting thee over the ears. It is the law o' life.
"Good evening, Elder, what is the difference between thy work an' mine?"
"I hadn't thought of that."
"Ah, thine is the dial of eternity—mine that o' time." And so he greeted all and sat down, filling his pipe.
"Now, Weston, out with the merry fiddle," said he, "an' see it give us happy thoughts."
A few small boys were gathered about him, and the tinker began to hum an Irish reel, fingers and forearm flying as he played an imaginary fiddle. But, even now, his dignity had not left him. The dance began. All were in the little house or at the two doors, peering in, save Darrel, who sat with his pipe, and Thurston Tilly, who was telling him tales of the far west. In the lull of sound that followed the first figure, Trove came to look out upon them. A big, golden moon had risen above the woods, and the light and music and merry voices had started a sleepy twitter up in the dome of Robin's Inn.