"'A little creature! an' thee so put about?' said another, with great contempt.
"'Ay; but he hath a mighty talent,' said the sad painter. 'Let him but stand before thee, an' he hath spoiled the earth, an' its people, an' thou would'st even flee from thyself. But in fleeing thou shalt think thyself on the way to hell.'"
For a moment Darrel shook with silent laughter. Then he rose and put his pipe on the shelf.
"Well, I'd another chance to try the good law on him," said Darrel, presently. "In July he fell sick o' fever, an' I delayed me trip to nurse him. At length, when he was nearly well, an' I had come to his home one evening, the widow Glover met me at his door.
"'If ye expect money fer comin' here, ye better go on 'bout yer business,' Brooke shouted from the bedroom. 'I don't need ye any more, an' I'll send ye a bushel o' potatoes by 'n by. Good day.'
"Not a word o' thanks!" the tinker exclaimed. "Wrath o' God! I fear there is but one thing would soften him."
"And what is that?"
"A club," said Darrel. "But God forgive me! I must put away anger. Soon it went about that Brooke was to marry the widow. All were delighted, for each party would be in the nature of a punishment. God's justice! they did deserve each other."
Darrel shook with happiness, and relighted his pipe.
"Mayhap ye've seen the dear lady," Darrel went on. "She is large, bony, quarrelsome—a weaver of some fifty years—neither amiable nor fair to look upon. Every one knows her—a survivor o' two husbands an' many a battle o' high words.