"I've eighty-two dollars in my pocket," said Trove, proudly. "I do not need it. The job in the mill--that will feed me and pay my room rent, and my clothes will do me for another year." "On me word, boy; I like it in thee," said Darrel; "but surely she would not take thy money." "I could not offer it to her, but you might go there, and perhaps she would take it from you." "Capital!" the tinker exclaimed. "I'll see if I can serve thee. Marry, good youth, I'll even give away thy money an' take credit for thy benevolence. Teacher, philanthropist, lover--I believe thou'rt ready to write." "The plan of my first novel is complete," said Trove. "That poor thief,--he shall be my chief character,--the man of whom you told me." "Poor man! God make thee kind to him," said the tinker. "An' thou'rt willing, I'll hear o' him to-night. When the firelight flickers,--that is the time, boy, for tales." They built a rude lean-to, covered with bark, and bedded with fragrant boughs. Both lay in the firelight, Darrel smoking his pipe, as the night fell. "Now for thy tale," said the tinker. The tale was Trove's own solution of his life mystery, shrewdly come to, after a long and careful survey of the known facts. And now, shortly, time was to put the seal of truth upon it, and daze him with astonishment, and fill him with regret of his cunning. It should be known that he had never told Darrel or any one of his coming in the little red sleigh. He lay thinking for a time after the tinker spoke. Then he began:--