"Well--I have!" he confessed, with a look that was almost guilty. "I'm always at it when there's time--I must. There was an idee as came to me this very evening an' I had to write it down. 'T was that as made me forget the salt an' pepper--" "Is it about the Silent Places, Jerry?" questioned Diana eagerly. "Or a lonely star, or the sound of a brook at night--?" "It's got a bit of all on 'em," said the Tinker. "I should very much like to hear it," said I. "Honest an' true?" he enquired a little diffidently. "Honest and true!" I answered, as I had done upon a former occasion. "Then so ye shall, though it ain't finished, or rather it ain't begun, as ye might say, for I can't find a good opening verse. I want to say that if a man don't happen to be blest wi' riches there's better things for him if he's only got eyes to see 'em." Saying which (and after no little rummaging) the Tinker drew a crumpled paper from capacious pocket and, bending to the fire, read as follows: "'Instead of riches give to me Eyes, the great, good things to see The golden earth, the jewelled sky The best that in all hearts doth lie. Give me this: when day's begun A woodland glade, a ray of sun Falling where the dewdrops lie Give me this, and rich am I. Give me this: the song of bird In lonely wood at sunset heard Piping of his evening hymn 'Mid a leafy twilight dim. Give me this: a stream that wendeth, Where the sighing willow bendeth, Singing through the woodland ways Never-ending songs of praise. Give me these, with eyes to see And richer than a king I'll be.'" "D'ye like it, Peregrine?" he enquired, anxious and diffident. "So much that I wish I had written it." "Jerry writes verses like birds sing and the wind blows, just because he must," said Diana gravely. "All that is best happens so, I think. Are you for Tonbridge tomorrow, Jerry?" "Aye, I am, lass, 'cording to custom. Maybe I'll pick up plenty to do at the fair." "And maybe you'll find your friend, Peregrine," said she, rising. "What friend?" "Him you was to meet, of course." "Why, to be sure--Anthony! I'd clean forgotten him." "That's strange," said she, "seeing you were so anxious to find him." "It is," said I, "I wonder what should have put it out of my head?" "Ah--I wonder!" said the Tinker. "What, goin' to bed, lass? Tent soot ye?" "Yes--I laid your blankets under the tree yonder--Good night!" And with a wave of the hand she was gone. Then, having made up the fire, we presently rolled ourselves in our blankets and lay down where we might behold the stars. And after some while the Tinker spoke drowsily: "I'm glad--very glad, friend Peregrine, as I've met you again, not only because you like my verses but because I like your ways. But I'm sorry--aye, very sorry, as you should ha' fallen in wi' Diana--" "And why, pray?" I demanded, a little sharply.