look abroad for wholesome sympathy, to bestow and to receive. Her footsteps strayed to this gate, bringing her here by chance, as an opposite contrast to you. The child came out, sir. If you have the wisdom to learn from a child (but I doubt it, for that requires more wisdom than one in your condition would seem to possess), you cannot do better than imitate the child, and come out too—from that very demoralizing hutch of yours.
VII.
PICKING UP THE TINKER.
It was now sunset. The hermit had betaken himself to his bed of cinders half an hour ago, and lying on it in his blanket and skewer with his back to the window, took not the smallest heed of the appeal addressed to him.
All that had been said for the last two hours, had been said to a tinkling accompaniment performed by the tinker who had got to work on some villager's pot or kettle, and was working briskly outside. This music still continuing, seemed to put it into Mr. Traveller's mind to have another word or two with the tinker. So, holding Miss Kimmeens (with whom he was now on the most friendly terms) by the hand, he went out at the gate to where the tinker was seated at his work on the patch of grass on the opposite side of the road, with his wallet of tools open before him, and his little fire smoking.
"I am glad to see you employed," said Mr. Traveller.
"I am glad to be employed," returned the tinker, looking up as he put the finishing touches to his job. "But why are you glad?"
"I thought you were a lazy fellow when I saw you this morning."
"I was only disgusted," said the tinker.
"Do you mean with the fine weather?"
"With the fine weather?" repeated the tinker, staring.
"You told me you were not particular as to weather, and I thought—"
"Ha, ha! How should such as me get on if we was partickler as to weather? We must take it as it comes, and make the best of it. There's something good in all
