"An' here's Mrs. Barbour--'twill make me sweat to carry me pride
now. How goes the battle?"
"The Lord has given me sore affliction," said she.
"Nay, dear woman," said the tinker in that tone so kindly and
resistless, "do not think the Lord is hitting thee over the ears.
It is the law o' life.
"Good evening, Elder, what is the difference between thy work an'
mine?"
"I hadn't thought of that."
"Ah, thine is the dial of eternity--mine that o' time." And so he
greeted all and sat down, filling his pipe.
"Now, Weston, out with the merry fiddle," said he, "an' see it give
us happy thoughts."
A few small boys were gathered about him, and the tinker began to
hum an Irish reel, fingers and forearm flying as he played an
imaginary fiddle. But, even now, his dignity had not left him.
The dance began. All were in the little house or at the two doors,
peering in, save Darrel, who sat with his pipe, and Thurston Tilly,
who was telling him tales of the far west. In the lull of sound
that followed the first figure, Trove came to look out upon them.
A big, golden moon had risen above the woods, and the light and
music and merry voices had started a sleepy twitter up in the dome
of Robin's Inn.
Pages:
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241