"The heathen idols and the laundrymen are welcome to her," growled Patsy, maliciously. "If they'd only fix her with the evil eye, or wish such a homesickness and lovesickness on her that 'twould last for a year and a day, I'd forgive her for what she's made me wish on myself." Having relieved her mind somewhat, she was able to attend to the business of the letter with less inward discomfort. The letter was written to George Travis, already known as the manager of Miss St. Regis. He was the head of a well-known theatrical managerial firm in New York, and an old friend and well-wisher of Patsy's. In it she explained, partly, her continued sojourn in America, and frankly confessed to her financial needs. If he had anything anywhere that she could do until the fall bookings with her own company, she would be most humbly grateful. He might address her at Arden; she had great hopes of reaching there--some day. There was a postscript added in good, pure Donegal: And don't ye be afeared of hurting my pride by offering anything too small. Just at present I'm like old Granny Donoghue's lean pig--hungry for scrapings. As she sealed the envelope a shadow fell athwart the counter. Patsy looked up to find the tinker peering at her sharply. "You look clean tuckered out," he announced, baldly; then he laid a coaxing hand on her arm. "I want you to come along with me. Will you, lass? I've found a place for you--a nice place. I've been talkin' to Joseph's mother, an' she's goin' to look after you for the night." Patsy's face crinkled up all over; the tinker could not have told--even if he had been in possession of all his senses--whether she was going to laugh or cry. As it turned out, she did neither; she just sighed, a tired, contented little sigh, slipping off the stool and dropping the letter into the post-box. When she faced the tinker again her eyes were misty, and for all her courage she could not keep the quivering from her lips. She reached up impulsive, trusting hands to his shoulders: "Lad--lad--how were ye ever guessing that I'd reached the end o' my wits and was needing some one to think for me? Holy Saint Michael! but won't I be mortial glad to be feeling a respectable, Lebanon feather-bed under me!" * * * * * As the tinker led her out of the store the quorum eyed her silently for a moment. For a brief space there was a scraping of chairs and clearing of throats, indicative of some important comment. "What sort of a lookin' gal did that Green County sheriff say he was after?" inquired the storekeeper at last. "Small, warn't it?" suggested one of the quorum. "Yep, guess it was. And what sort o' clothes did he say she wore?" "Brown!" chorused the quorum. "Wall, boys"--the storekeeper wagged an accusing thumb in the direction of the recently vacated stool--"she was small, warn't she? An' she's got brown clothes, hain't she? An' she acts queer, doan't she?"