At this, being somewhat at a loss, I looked at Diana and she at the fire again.
"Now if," pursued the Tinker, "if you'm minded, both on ye, for to j'ine comp'ny and travel the country awhile along o' Diogenes an' me—say the word, an' I'll be the j'y-fullest tinker 'twixt here an' John o' Groat's!" As he ended, Diana reached out suddenly and, catching his hand, fondled those work-roughened fingers against her soft cheek.
"O Jerry," she sighed, "you were always s' good and wise!"
"Then, dear lass, you'll come?"
"Of course I will. I'll weave baskets—"
"And I'll mend kettles, if you'll teach me, friend Jerry," said I, grasping his other hand.
"Why, children!" said he, looking upon us gentle-eyed, "Lord love ye now—you make me as proud as if I was a dook 'stead of only a travelling tinker!"
"It were best of all to be a poet, I think!" said I. "Have you written any more verses lately?"
"Well—I have!" he confessed, with a look that was almost guilty. "I'm always at it when there's time—I must. There was an idee as came to me this very evening an' I had to write it down. 'T was that as made me forget the salt an' pepper—"
"Is it about the Silent Places, Jerry?" questioned Diana eagerly. "Or a lonely star, or the sound of a brook at night—?"