"You know Billy's father never gave him an allowance; he didn't believe in it--wouldn't trust Billy with a cent. Poor little shaver--never had anything to treat with at school, the way the rest of the boys did; and never even had car-fare--always walked, rain or shine, unless his father took him along with him in the machine. Billy used to say even in those days he liked walking better. Mother died in the winter--snowy time--when Billy was about twelve; and he borrowed a shovel from a corner grocer and cleared stoops all afternoon until he'd made enough to buy two white roses. Father hadn't broken down all day--wouldn't let us children show a tear; but when Billy came in with those roses--well, it was the children who finally had to cheer father up." Patsy sprang to her feet with a little cry. "I must be going." She turned to the others, a ring of appeal in her voice. "Can't we hurry a bit? There's a deal of work at Arden to be done, and no one but myself to be doing it." "Rehearsals?" asked Janet Payne. And Patsy, unheeding, nodded her head. There was a babel of nonsense in the returning car. Patsy contributed her share the while her mind was busy building over again into a Balmacaan coat and plush hat the semblance of a man. "Sure, I'm not saying I can make out his looks or the color of his eyes and hair, but he's real, for all that. Holy Saint Patrick, but he's a real man at last, and I'm liking him!" She smiled with deep contentment. X JOSEPH JOURNEYS TO A FAR COUNTRY Having established the permanent reality of Billy Burgeman to her own satisfaction, Patsy's mind went racing off to conjure up all the possible things Billy and the tinker might think of each other as soon as chance should bring them together. Whereas it was perfectly consistent that Billy should shun the consolation and companionship of his own world, he might follow after vagabond company as a thirsty dog trails water; and who could slake that thirst better than the tinker? For a second time that day she pictured the two swinging down the open road together; and for the second time she pulled a wry little smile. The car was nearing the cross-roads from which Patsy had been originally kidnapped. She looked up to identify it, and saw a second car speeding toward them from the opposite direction, while between the two plodded a solitary little figure, coming toward them, supported by a mammoth pilgrim staff. It was a boy, apparently conscious of but the one car--theirs; and he swerved to their left--straight into the path of the car behind--to let them pass. They sounded their horns, waved their hands, and shouted warnings. It seemed wholly unbelievable that he should not understand or that the other car would not stop. But the unbelievable happened; it does sometimes.