A hush fell on the group. Patsy suddenly put out her hand. "I'm glad for you--I'm glad for him; and I hope it ended right. Did you see him?" "For a few minutes. There wasn't time to say much; but he looked like a man who had won out. He said he and the old man had had a good talk together for the first time in their lives--said it had given him a father whose memory could never shame him or make him bitter. I wanted to tell you, so you wouldn't have him on your mind any longer." She smiled retrospectively. "Thank you; but I heaved him off nearly twenty-four hours ago." Left to herself again, she finished her packing; then tying under her chin a silly little poke-bonnet of white chiffon and corn-flowers, still somewhat crushed from its long imprisonment in a trunk, she went back for a last glimpse of the Forest and her Greenwood tree. The place was deserted except for the teamsters who had come for the tents and the property trunks. A flash of white against the green of the tree caught her eye; for an instant she thought it one of Orlando's poetic effusions, overlooked in the play and since forgotten. Idly curious, she pulled it down and read it--once, twice, three times: Where twin oaks rustle in the wind, There waits a lad for Rosalind. If still she be so wond'rous kind, Perchance she'll ease the fretted mind That naught can cure--but Rosalind. With a glad little cry she crumpled the paper in her hand and fled, straight as a throstle to its mate, to the giant twin oaks which were landmarks in the forest. Her eyes were a-search for a vagabond figure in rags; it was small wonder, therefore, that they refused to acknowledge the man in his well-cut suit of gray who was leaning partly against the hole of a tree and partly on a pilgrim staff. She stood and stared and gave no sign of greeting. "Well, so the Duke's daughter found her rhyme?" "I'm not knowing whether I'll own ye or not. Sure, ye've no longer the look of an honest tinker; and maybe we'd best part company now--before we meet at all." But the tinker had her firmly by both hands. "That's too late now. I would have come in rags if there'd been anything left of them, but they are the only things I intend to part company with. And do you know"--he gripped her hands tighter--"I met an acquaintance as I came this way who told me, with eyes nearly popping out of his head, that the wonderful little person who had played herself straight into hundreds of hearts had actually been his cook for three days. Oh, lass! lass! how could you do it!" "Troth! God made me a better cook than actress. Ye wouldn't want me to be slighting His handiwork entirely, would ye?"