"Ah, but I thank the good God, here is me home," the old man remarked wearily. "I'm going to school here," said Trove, "and hope I may see you often." "Indeed, boy, we'll have many a blessed hour," said the tinker. "Come to me shop; we'll talk, meditate, explore, an' I'll see what o'clock it is in thy country." They were now in the village, and, halfway down its main thoroughfare, went up a street of gloom and narrowness between dingy workshops. At one of them, shaky, and gray with the stain of years, they halted. The two lower windows in front were dim with dirt and cobwebs. A board above them was the rude sign of Sam Bassett, carpenter. On the side of the old shop was a flight of sagging, rickety stairs. At the height of a man's head an old brass dial was nailed to the gray boards. Roughly lettered in lampblack beneath it were the words, "Clocks Mended." They climbed the shaky stairs to a landing, supported by long braces, and whereon was a broad door, with latch and keyhole in its weathered timber. "All bow at this door," said the old tinker, as he put his long iron key in the lock. "It's respect for their own heads, not for mine," he continued, his hand on the eaves that overhung below the level of the door-top. They entered a loft, open to the peak and shingles, with a window in each end. Clocks, dials, pendulums, and tiny cog-wheels of wood and brass were on a long bench by the street window. Thereon, also, were a vice and tools. The room was cleanly, with a crude homelikeness about it. Chromos and illustrated papers had been pasted on the rough, board walls. "On me life, it is cold," said the tinker, opening a small stove and beginning to whittle shavings, "'Cold as a dead man's nose.' Be seated, an' try--try to be happy." There was an old rocker and two small chairs in the room. "I do not feel the cold," said Trove, taking one of them. "Belike, good youth, thou hast the rose of summer in thy cheeks," said the old man. "And no need of an overcoat," the boy answered, removing the one he wore and passing it to the tinker. "I wish you to keep it, sir." "Wherefore, boy? 'Twould best serve me on thy back." "Please take it," said Trove. "I cannot bear to think of you shivering in the cold. Take it, and make me happy." "Well, if it keep me warm, an' thee happy, it will be a wonderful coat," said the old man, wiping his gray eyes. Then he rose and filled the stove with wood and sat down, peering at Trove between the upper rim of his spectacles and the feathery arches of silvered hair upon his brows. "Thy coat hath warmed me heart already--thanks to the good God!" said he, fervently. "Why so kind?"