"But the world can't get along without it," reminded the tinker, shrewdly. "Aye, but it can. It can get along without the hoarded gold, the inherited gold, the cheating, bribing, starving gold--that's the kind I mean, the kind that gets into a man's heart and veins until his fingers itch to gild everything he touches, like the rich man in the city yonder." "What rich man? I thought the--I thought the city was full o' rich men." "Maybe; but there's just one I'm thinking of now; and God pity him--and his son." The tinker eyed her stupidly. "How d'you know he has a son?" Patsy laughed. "I guessed--maybe." Then she looked down in her lap. "And here's the news--with no light left to read it by; and I'm as hungry as an alley cat--and as tired as two. Ye'd never dream, to hear me talking, that I'd never had much more than a crooked sixpence to my name since I was born; and here I am, with that gone and not a slither to buy me bed or board for the night." The tinker looked down at her with an altogether strange expression, very different from anything Patsy had seen on his face all day. Had she chanced to catch it before it flickered out, it might have puzzled even her O'Connell wits to fathom the meaning of it. For it was as if the two had unexpectedly changed places, and the tender pity and protectiveness that had belonged to her had suddenly become his. "Never mind, lass; there's board in the kit for to-night--what the farm wife put up; and there's this left, and I'll--I'll--" He did not finish; instead he dropped a few coins in her hand, the change from the half-dollar. Then he set about sweeping the dust from the step with his battered cap and spreading their meager meal before her. They ate in silence, so deep in the business of dulling their appetites that they never noticed a small figure crossing the street with two goblets and a pitcher hugged tight in his arms. They never looked up until the things were set down beside them and a voice announced at their elbow, "Mother said I could bring it; it's better 'n eatin' dry." It was Joseph; and the pitcher held milk, still foamy from a late milking. He looked at Patsy a moment longingly, as if there was more he wanted to ask; but, overcome with a sudden bashful confusion, he took to his heels and disappeared around the corner of the meeting-house before they had time even to give thanks. The tinker poured the goblets full, handed Patsy's to her with another grave bow, and, touching his to hers, said, soberly, "Here's to a friendly lass--the first I ever knew, I reckon." For an instant she watched him, puzzled and amused; then she raised her glass slowly in reply. "And here's to tinkers--the world over!" When everything but the crumbs were eaten she left him to scatter these and return Joseph's pitcher while she went to get "the loan of a light from the shopkeeper, and hunt up the news." * * * * *