you gifts," said Trove.

The old man raised his candle, surveying them with surprise and
curiosity.

"What gifts?" he inquired in a milder tone.

"Well," said the boy, "we've brought you mittens and a muffler."

"Ha! ha! Yer consciences have smote ye," said Brooke, "Glory to God
who brings the sinner to repentance!"

"And fills the bitter cup o' the ungrateful," said the tinker. And
they went away.

"I'd like to bring one other gift," said Darrel.

"What's that?"

"God forgive me! A rope to hang him. But mind thee, boy, we are
trying the law o' the great teacher, and let us see if we can learn
to love this man."

"Love Riley Brooke?" said Trove, doubtfully.

"A great achievement, I grant thee," said the tinker. "For if we
can love him, we shall be able to love anybody. Let us try and see
what comes of it."

A man was waiting for Darrel at the foot of the old stairs--a tall
man, poorly dressed, whom Trove had not seen before, and whom, now,
he was not able to see clearly in the darkness.

"The mare is ready," said Darrel. "Tis a dark night."

He to whom the tinker had spoken made no answer.

"Good night," said the tinker, turning. "A Merry Christmas to
thee, boy, an' peace an' plenty."

"I have peace, and you have given me plenty to think about," said
Trove.

On his way home the boy thought of the stranger at the stairs,
wondering if he were the other tinker of whom Darrel had told him.
At his lodging he found a new pair of boots with only the Christmas
greeting on a card.

"Well," said Trove, already merrier than most of far better
fortune, "he must have been somebody that knew my needs."

VII

Darrel of the Blessed Isles

The clock tinker was off in the snow paths every other week. In
more than a hundred homes, scattered far along road lines of the
great valley, he set the pace of the pendulums. Every winter the
mare was rented for easy driving and Darrel made his journeys
afoot. Twice a day Trove passed the little shop, and if there were
a chalk mark on the dial, he bounded upstairs to greet his friend.
Sometimes he brought another boy into the rare atmosphere of the
clock shop--one, mayhap, who needed some counsel of the wise old
man.

Spring had come again. Every day sowers walked the hills and
valleys around Hillsborough, their hands swinging with a godlike
gesture that summoned the dead to rise; everywhere was the odour of
broken field or garden. Night had come agai