"Lord, young sir—you 'ave been a-missing of your opportunities, you 'ave, playing fast and loose wi' Fortun', I calls it—ah, fair flying in the face o' Providence! Now, if instead o' selling books I took to writing of 'em, and tried to write you into a novel, why, Lord, what a poor thing that there novel would be! Who'd want to read it?—why, nobody! Oh, I can see as you've been throwing away your opportunities and wasting your chances shocking, you 'ave."
"Now I wonder," said Barnabas, frowning thoughtfully, "I wonder if I have?"
"Not a doubt of it!" answered the Pedler, swallowing the last of his potato.
"Then the sooner I begin to make up for it, the better."
"Ah!" nodded the Pedler. "I should begin at once, if I was you."
"I will," said Barnabas, gathering up the reins.
"And how, sir?"
"By going my allotted way and—striving to be content."
"Content!" exclaimed the Pedler, "lord, young sir, it's only fools as is ever content! A contented man never done anything much worth 'aving, nor said anything much worth 'caring as ever I 'eard. Never go for to be content, young sir, or you'll never do nothing at all!"
"Why, then," said Barnabas, smiling ruefully, "it is certain that I shall achieve something yet, because—I never shall be content!"