"I was usin' it at the time, any'ow," chuckled their guest, "and wot you're usin' at the time belongs to you. I never knew 'appiness while I kep' it. Watches and clocks only mean 'urry. It's an endless job, tryin' to keep up with 'em. You've got to go so fast for one thing--I never was a sprinter--bah!" he snorted--"there's nothing in it. Life isn't a 'undred yards race. You miss all the flowers on the way at that pace. And what's the prize?" He glanced down contemptuously at his feet. "Worn-out boots. Yer boots wear out--that's all." He looked round at the children, smiling wonderfully. Maria seemed to understand him best, perhaps. She looked up innocently into his tangled face. "That's it," he said, with another chuckle. "YOU know wot I mean, don't yer, missie?" But Maria made no reply. She merely beamed back at him till her face seemed nothing but a pair of wide blue eyes. "Stop yer clocks, go slow," the man murmured, half to himself, "and you'll see what I mean. There's twice as much time as before. You can do anything, everything,"--he spread his arms out--"because there's never any 'urry. You'd be surprised." "You're very hungry, aren't you?" inquired Tim, resenting the man's undue notice of Maria. The Tramp stared hard into the boy's unwavering eyes. "Always," he said briefly, "but, then, there's always folks to give." "Rather," exclaimed Judy with enthusiasm, and Tim added eagerly, "I should think so." They seemed to know all about him, then. Something had entered with him that made common stock of the five of them. It was wonderful of Uncle Felix to have known all this beforehand. "We're all alive together," murmured the Tramp below his breath, and then Uncle Felix showed another stroke of genius. "We'll make tea out here to-day," he said, "instead of having it indoors. Tim, you run and fetch a tea-pot, a bottle of milk, and some cups and a kettle full of water; put some sugar in your pockets and bring a loaf and butter and a pot of jam. A basket will hold the lot. And while you're gone we'll get the fire going." "A big knife and some spoons too," Judy cried after his disappearing figure, "and don't let Aunt Emily see you, mind." The Tramp looked up sharply. "I had an Aunt Emily once," he said behind his hedged-in face. Expecting more to follow, the others waited; but nothing came. There was a little pause. "Once?" asked Maria, wondering perhaps if there were two such beings in the world at the same time. The man of journeys nodded. "Did she mend your clothes and things--and love to care for you?" Judy wished to know. He shook his tangled head. "She visited the poor," he told them, "and had no time for the likes of me. And one day I fell out of a big hole in my second suit and took to tramping." He rubbed his hands vigorously together in the air. "And here I am." "Yes," said Maria kindly. "I'm glad."