ocket o' gold.'

"A beautiful, shiny thing it was, an' he took out of it a little
strand o' white hair an' read these words cut in the gleaming
case:--

"'Here are silver an' gold,
The one for a day o' remembrance between thee an' dishonour,
The other for a day o' plenty between thee an' want.'

"It was an odd thought an' worth keeping, an' often I have repeated
the words. The silvered hair, that was for remembrance; an' the
gold he might sell and turn it into a day o' plenty.

"'In the locket was a letter,' said the poor man. 'Here it is,'
an' he held it in the light o' the candle. 'See, it is signed
"mother."'

"An' he read from the letter words o' sorrow an' bitter shame, an'
firm confidence in his honour,

"'It ground me to the very dust,' he went on. 'I put the money in
that bundle, every dollar. I could not return it, an' so confirm
the disgrace o' her an' all the rest. I could not use it, for if I
lived in comfort they would ask--all o' them--whence came his
money? For their sake I must walk in poverty all me days. An' I
went to work at heavy toil, sor, as became a poor man. As God's me
judge I felt a pride in rags an' the horny hand.'"

The tinker paused a moment in which all the pendulums seemed to
quicken pace, tick lapping upon tick, as if trying to get ahead of
each other.

"Think of it, boy," Darrel continued. "A pride in rags an'
poverty. Bring that into thy book an' let thy best thinking bear
upon it. Show us how patch an' tatter were for the poor man as
badges of honour an' success.

"'I thought to burn the money,' me host went on. 'But no, that
would have robbed me o' one great possibility--that o' restoring
it. Some time, when they were dead, maybe, an' I could suffer
alone, I would restore it, or, at least, I might see a way to turn
it into good works. So I could not be quit o' the money. Day an'
night these slow an' heavy years it has been me companion, cursing
an' accusing me.

"'I lie here o' nights thinking. In that heap o' money I seem to
hear the sighs an' sobs o' the poor people that toiled to earn it.
I feel their sweat upon me, an' God! this heart o' mine is crowded
to bursting with the despair o' hundreds. An', betimes, I hear the
cry o' murder in the cursed heap as if there were some had blood
upon it. An' then I dream it has caught fire beneath me an' I am
burning raw in the flame.'"

The tinker paused again, crossing the room and watching the swin