"For two years, Jerry. Two weary years ... emptiness ... loneliness. I have placed her in the Earl of Wyvelstoke's charge ... they start for London at once ... leave England as soon as possible ... she is gone ... two years, Jerry ... two weary years ... desolation!" "Peregrine," said he in hushed voice, "this was her great wish--to be a lady for your sake. She's told me so many's the time ... an' I caught her in tears over it once." "I have sent her away, Jerry, for two years!" "Peregrine," said he, "'t is a fine thing to be a gentleman, but 't is a grand thing to be a man big enough an' brave enough to do such act as this here. God bless ye, lad!" "O Jerry--O Jerry, I love her so...! Yearn and hunger for her so much ... it is a pain!" "Aye, but 't is such pain as makes the strong stronger! 'Tis such love as do be everlasting and reaches high as heaven--" "Two years, Jerry! Two long, weary years to wait ... to yearn ... to live through without her ... emptiness!" "Ah, but you've done right, lad, you've done right. And then--what's two years? Lord, they'll soon go! And her love for you'll be a-growin' with every month--every day an' hour, lad, an' she'll come back t' ye at last, only more beautiful, more wonderful an' more loving than ever she was--" "O Jerry," said I, grasping at him with sudden hands. "You don't think ... death ... you don't think she may die?" "Die? What, Ann--s' strong an' full o' vig'rous life? Lord, not she, lad, not she--never think it!" "Or ... forget me, Jerry?" "What--Ann? Lord love ye--no! She ain't one to forget or change--never was, an' I've knowed her since a little child. An' she's never loved afore--hated men! An' why? Because 't was always her beauty as they wanted--her body--an' never a thought of her mind, d'ye see! An' now--she's to travel to see the world, is she! An' with the Earl--an' him such a great gentleman! 'T is wonderful good fortun' for her, Peregrine, wonderful!" "Yes, he is a very great gentleman and a truly noble man, Jerry." "An' now, what o' yourself, lad?" "I shall continue to live with you, Jerry; I shall go on smithing and tinkering--yes, harder than ever--" "No!" said the Tinker, sitting back on his heels and shaking his head at me with the utmost vehemence. "Tinkering ain't for you, Peregrine, an' you can do better things than swingin' a sledge--ah, a sight better!" "What do you suppose I can do?" sighed I miserably. "Paint pictoors!" "Impossible! I shall never be a real painter, Jerry." "Well, then--write!" "Impossible! I shall never be a poet, Jerry." "Well, have you ever thought o' writin' a nov-el?" "Never!" "Well, what about it?" "Impossible! Of what should I write?" "Why, about HER--Anna, for sure, your Diana as would ha' made a better goddess than the real one, I reckon."