"Ah—I wonder!" said the Tinker. "What, goin' to bed, lass? Tent soot ye?"
"Yes—I laid your blankets under the tree yonder—Good night!" And with a wave of the hand she was gone.
Then, having made up the fire, we presently rolled ourselves in our blankets and lay down where we might behold the stars. And after some while the Tinker spoke drowsily:
"I'm glad—very glad, friend Peregrine, as I've met you again, not only because you like my verses but because I like your ways. But I'm sorry—aye, very sorry, as you should ha' fallen in wi' Diana—"
"And why, pray?" I demanded, a little sharply.
"Because if you should happen to fall in love wi' her and really want to marry her, which I don't suppose—and she was foolish enough to let you—which I'm pretty sure she wouldn't, being of a proud temper and mighty independent—'t would be a very bad thing for you and a terrible shock to that fine aunt and those rich uncles o' yours as you told me of—"
"And why should it be?"
"Because Anna ain't of your world and not being born wi' drawing-room manners she'd shock you twenty times a day, throw your fine aunt into a fit and give your uncles paralytic strokes—Anna's all right in her way but—"
"She's a very beautiful girl!" said I hotly. "And good as she's beautiful!"
"She is!" said the Tinker heartily. "Sweet an' good still, in spite of everything, an' I know—I've watched her grow up—"