e pendulums were ever swinging like the legs of a procession
trooping through the loft, some with quick steps, some with slow.
Now came a sound as of drums beating. It was for the hour of
eight, and when it stopped the tinker began.

"Once upon a time," said he, as they rose from the table and the
old man went for his pipe, "'twas long ago, an' I had then the rose
o' youth upon me, a man was tempted o' the devil an' stole money--a
large sum--an' made off with it. These hands o' mine used to serve
him those days, an' I remember he was a man comely an' well set up,
an', I think, he had honour an' a good heart in him."

The old man paused.

"I should not think it possible," said Trove, who was at the age of
certainty in his opinions and had long been trained to the
uncompromising thought of the Puritan. "A man who steals can have
no honour in him."

"Ho! Charity," said the clock tinker, turning as if to address one
behind him. "Sweet Charity! attend upon this boy. Mayhap, sor,"
he continued meekly. "God hath blessed me with little knowledge o'
what is possible. But I speak of a time before guilt had sored
him. He was officer of a great bank--let us say--in Boston. Some
thought him rich, but he lived high an' princely, an' I take it,
sor, his income was no greater than his needs. It was a proud race
he belonged to--grand people they were, all o' them--with houses
an' lands an' many servants. His wife was dead, sor, an' he'd one
child--a little lad o' two years, an' beautiful. One day the boy
went out with his nurse, an' where further nobody knew. He never
came back. Up an' down, over an' across they looked for him, night
an' day, but were no wiser, A month went by an' not a sight or sign
o' him, an' their hope failed. One day the father he got a
note,--I remember reading it in the papers, sor,--an' it was a call
for ransom money--one hundred thousand dollars."

"Kidnapped!" Trove exclaimed with much interest.

"He was, sor," the clock tinker resumed. "The father he was up to
his neck in trouble, then, for he was unable to raise the money.
He had quarrelled with an older brother whose help would have been
sufficient. Well, God save us all! 'twas the old story o' pride
an' bitterness. He sought no help o' him. A year an' a half
passes an' a gusty night o' midwinter the bank burns. Books,
papers, everything is destroyed. Now the poor man has lost his
occupation. A week more an' his good name is g