of beech and maple. The sunlight sifted
through in great, unbroken patches of gold, falling on the beds
of fern and moss and--yes, there they were, the promised
lady's-slippers.

A little, indrawn sigh of ecstasy from Patsy caused the tinker to
turn about. "Then you're not hatin' gold when you find it growin'
green that-a-way?" he chuckled.

Patsy shook her head with vehemence. "Never! And wouldn't it be grand
if nature could be gathering it all up from everywhere and spinning
it over again into the likes of those! In the name o' Saint Francis,
do ye suppose if the English poets had laid their two eyes to
anything so beautiful as what's yonder they'd ever have gone so daffy
over daffodils?"

"They never would," agreed the tinker.

Patsy studied him with a sharp little look. "And what do ye know
about English poets, pray?"

His lower jaw dropped in a dull, foolish fashion. "Nothin'; but I
know daff'dils," he explained at last.

And at that moment the call of a thrush came to them from just across
the glade. Patsy listened spellbound while he sang his bubbling song
of gladness through half a score of times.

"Is it the flowers singing?" she asked at last, her eyes dancing
mischievously.

"It might be the souls o' the dead ones." The tinker considered
thoughtfully a moment. "Maybe the souls o' flowers become birds, same
as ours becomes angels--wouldn't be such a deal o' difference--both
takin' to wings and singin'." He chuckled again. "Anyhow, that's the
bellbird; and I sent him word yesterday by one o' them tattlin'
finches to be on hand just about this time."

"Ye didn't order a breakfast the same way, did ye?"

The tinker threw back his head and laughed. "I did, then," and,
before Patsy could strip her tongue of its next teasing remark, he
had vanished as quickly and completely as if magic had had a hand in
it.

A crescendo of snapping twigs and rustling leaves marked his going,
however; and Patsy leaped the brook and settled herself, tailor
fashion, in the midst of the sunshine and the lady's-slippers. She
unpinned the rakish beaver and tossed it from her; off came the
Norfolk jacket, and followed the beaver. She eyed the rest of her
costume askance; she would have sorely liked to part with that, too,
had she but the Lord's assurance that He would do as well by her as
he had by the lilies of the field or the lady's-slippers.

"'Tis surprising how wearisome the same clothes can grow when on the
back o