"To think that a man like me--so dark and distrustful--to think that even such a man--I, that thought my heart was cracked for ever when my son died--I, that said to myself 'no more, no more can any earthly thing fret you now.' And yet all the time, like a withered pippin--brown, dry as dust--there was that within that only wanted something--some heat to the pulp of me--to plump me out again. To think that the like of me must have some other thing to--to cherish and foster! To think my shrivelled heart-strings could ever stretch and seek for aught to twine around again! Who'd believe it of such a man as me? God A'mighty! I didn't believe it of myself!" "But I knowed it," said Susan. "You always went hunger-starved for people to think a bit kindly of you; you always fretted when decent folk didn't like you." "Not that--not that now. I wanted their good-will; but I've found something a lot higher than that. To see a poor soul happy is better far than to see 'em grateful. What does that matter? To mark their downward eye uplifted again; to note their fear for the future gone; to see hope creep back to 'em; to watch 'em walk cheerful and work cheerful; to know they laugh in their going once more; that they lie themselves down with a sigh of happiness and not of grief--ban't all that grander than their gratitude? Gratitude must fade sooner or late, for the largest-hearted can't feel it for ever, try as he may. Benefits forgot are dust and ashes to the giver--if he remembers. But none can take from me the good I've won from others' good; and none can make that memory dim." "'Tis a fairy story," murmured Mrs. Hacker. "No," he said, "'tis a little child's story--the thing they learn at a mother's knees; and because I was a growed-up man, I missed it. 'Tis a riddle a generous child could have guessed in a minute; but it took one stiff-necked fool from his adult days into old age afore he did." Susan's mind moved to her purpose, and she knew that never again might fall so timely a moment. She put down her knitting, flung a peat on the fire, and spoke. "You be full of wonderful tales to-night, but now I'll please ask you to listen to me," she began. "And mark this: you can't well be too hard upon me. I've got a pack of sins to confess, and if, when you've heard 'em, you won't do with me no more, then do without me, and send me through that door. I deserve it. There's nought that's bad I don't deserve." He started up. "What's this?" he said. "You haven't told anybody?" "No, no, no. Ban't nothing about your affairs. In a word, I overheard a secret. I listened. I did it out of woman's cursed curiosity. And, as if that weren't enough, I got drunk as a fly down to 'The White Thorn' a while back and let out the truth. And nought's too bad for me--nought in nature, I'm sure." Mr. Baskerville put down his pipe and turned to her. "Don't get excited. Begin at the beginning. What did you hear?"