age; and, faith! it's beautiful, and he knows it He's looking at it as a cat would at a mouse.--He's a bad man, my dear.” “Is he?” said the little girl, apparently half alarmed, but still feeling rather inclined to doubt Darby Doherty's account of the pedlar;--“Is he a bad man?--Then why do you stay with him?” “I won't--no, not while you'd whistle, after I've ate his herrings;--that is, if you'll come wid me.--Will you?” “Perhaps,” replied the little girl, “he'll say you are a bad man; and then what can I do?” At this the tinker laughed and muttered something about nature. The pedlar still held the child, and putting his hand under her chin, turned her face upwards, and then looking down upon her, spoke thus;--“My wee woman, I hae eleven bairns, some younger than yoursel', and I wouldna harm sic a puir, wee, defenceless child as thee, for the worth of an ingot of pure gold; it would weigh down my heart on a death-bed, and carry my soul into the sorrowfu' pit I'm a tradesman, and traffic in hair, as he has just told you, and have a family,--eleven bairns, a wife, myself, a daft brither, my first wife's aged and bed-ridden mither, and a sister's son, as wee and as fatherless as ye seem yoursel';--saxteen mouths to find food for to-day and to-morrow, and every morn that I rise. I travel far and near to get it.” “Just like a good cock-pigeon,” interrupted the tinker; “I've known an old bird feed the young squeakers in one nest, and his mate to boot, while she was setting over her eggs in another:--tightish work!--but there--it's natural.” “And I dinna scruple,” continued the pedlar, without noticing the interruption of his companion; “I dinna scruple to do my best, and barter, as well as I can, in order to get bread and cheese;--but not with the like o' thee, cherub. I canna' take thee by adoption, for I hae eleven o' my ain.--I'll hold out no temptation o' that sort; but I'll carry thee, on the head o' my pack, safe and clear to the revel, if there's ony there ye hae a wish to see.” “For that matter,” cried the tinker, “she can ride a-top of my poney, with the pots and that.” “Oh! don't be bothering!” shouted Doherty; “she shall ride upon my wooden leg, or anywhere about me, for have her I will; to the revel she goes wid me, right or wrong, in spite of man or baist, tinkers, tay-kettles, pedlars, packs, pilfering ponies, and the whole fratarnity of ye.--I've said it, and so it shall be.--How do I know,--answer me this,--how do I know that she isn't the child I lost long ago, eh?--That was a girl, and isn't this a girl? Now don't be trying to bother my brains with a reply.--Darby Doherty is my name, and I'm to be found any day, here or there, one place or another, if you go the right road.--Pedlar, stop thief! the tinker has stole a herring out of the pot.” “Ay, truly, it's time to fall to,” quoth the tinker.