Faith, sor, that is
all one needs, save the company o' the poets.
"'I pray an' sing an' tell old tales an' laugh
At gilded butterflies, an' hear poor rogues
Talk o' court news.'"
Trove had missed not a word nor even a turn of the eye in all that
scene. After years of acquaintance with the tinker he had not yet
ventured a question as to his life history. The difference of age
and a certain masterly reserve in the old gentleman had seemed to
discourage it. A prying tongue in a mere youth would have met
unpleasant obstacles with Darrel. Never until that day had he
spoken freely of his past in the presence of the young man.
"I must see you again," said the tragedian, rising. "Of those
parts I try to play, which do you most like?"
"St. Paul," said Darrel, quickly. "Last night, sor, in this great
theatre, we heard the voice o' the prophet. Ah, sor, it was like a
trumpet on the walls of eternity. I commend to thee the part o'
St. Paul. Next to that--of all thy parts, Lear."
"Lear?" said Forrest, rising. "I am to play it this autumn. Come,
then, to New York. Give me your address, and I'll send for you."
"Sor," said Darrel, thoughtfully, "I can give thee much o' me love
but little o' me time.
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