"I'll tell you." Trove began.
"Nay, first a roundel," said the tinker, as he began to shuffle his feet to the measure of an old fairy song.
"If one were on his way to the gallows, you would make him laugh," said Trove, smiling.
"An I could, so would I," said the old man. "A smile, boy, hath in it 'some relish o' salvation.' Now, tell me, what is thy trouble?"
"I'm going to leave school," said Trove.
"An' wherefore?"
"I'm sick of this pinching poverty. Look at my clothes; I thought
I could make them do, but I can't."
He put the two notes in Darrel's hand. The tinker wiped his spectacles and then read them both.
"Tut, tut, boy!" said he, presently, with a very grave look. "Have ye forgotten the tatters that were as a badge of honour an' success? Weeks ago I planned to find thee better garments, but, on me word, I had no heart for it. Nay, these old ones had become dear to me. I was proud o' them—ay, boy, proud o' them. When I saw the first patch on thy coat, said I, 'It is the little ensign o' generosity.' Then came another, an', said I, 'That is for honour an' true love,' an' these bare threads—there is no loom can weave the like o' them. Nay, boy," Darrel added, lifting an arm of the young man and kissing one of the patches, "be not ashamed o' these—they're beautiful, ay, beautiful. They stand for the dollars ye gave Polly."
Trove turned away, wiping his eyes.