"It was nice of you to bring the flowers," said Polly. "They are
beautiful."
"But not like those in thy cheeks, dear child. Where is the good
mother?" said Darrel.
"She and the boys are gone a-berrying, and I have been making
jelly. We're going to have a party to-night for your birthday."
"'An' rise up before the hoary head an' honour the face o' the old
man,'" said Darrel, thoughtfully. "But, child, honour is not for
them that tinker clocks."
"'Honour and fame from no condition rise,'" said Polly, who sat in
a chair, knitting.
"True, dear girl! Thy lips are sweeter than the poet's thought."
"You'll turn my head;" the girl was laughing as she spoke.
"An it turn to me, I shall be happy," said the tinker, smiling, and
then he began to feel the buttons on his waistcoat. "Loves me,
loves me not, loves me, loves me not--"
"She loves you," said Polly, with a smile.
"She loves me, hear that, boy," said the tinker. "Ah, were she not
bespoke! Well, God be praised, I'm happy," he added, filling his
pipe.
"And seventy," said Polly.
"Ay, three score an' ten--small an' close together, now, as I look
off at them, like a flock o' pigeons in the sky.
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