“Ye might tell me, then, how ye came to know about the cottage—and how your picture ever climbed to the mantel-shelf?”
“You know—I meant to burn that along with the dress—and I forgot. What did you think when you discovered it?”
“Faith! I thought it was the picture of the truest gentleman God had ever made—and I fetched it along with me—for company.”
The tinker threw back his head and laughed as of old. “What will poor old Greg say when he finds it gone? Oh, I know how you almost stole his faithful old heart by being so pitying of his friend—and how you made the sign for him to follow—”
“Aye,” agreed Patsy, “but what of the cottage?”
“That belongs to Greg’s father; he and the girls are West this summer, so the cottage was closed.”
“And the breakfast with the throstles and the lady’s-slippers?”
The tinker laid his finger over her lips. “Please, sweetheart—don’t try to steal away all the magic and the poetry from our road. You will leave it very barren if you do—‘I’m thinking.’”
Silence held their tongues until curiosity again loosened Patsy’s. “And what started ye on the road in rags? Ye have never really answered that.”
“I have never honestly wanted to; it is not a pleasant answer.” He drew Patsy closer, and his hands closed over hers. “Promise you will never think of it again, that you and I will forget that part of the road—after to-day?”