."

A moment later she came down the stairs humming, "Blow, blow, thou
winter wind," her eyes dancing riotously.

Now, by all rights, dramatic or otherwise, the tinker should have
been on hand, waiting her entrance. But tinker there was none;
nothing but emptiness--and a breakfast-tray, spread and ready for
her in the pantry.

Curiosity, uneasiness mastered her pride and she
called--once--twice--several times. But there came no answering sound
save the quickening of her own heart-beats under the pressure of her
held breath.

She was alone in the house.

A feeling of unutterable loneliness swept over Patsy. She came back
to the stairs and stood with her hands clasping the newel-post--for
all the world like a shipwrecked maiden clinging to the last spar of
the ship. No, she did not believe a shipwrecked person could feel
more deserted--more left behind than she did; moreover, it was an
easier task to face the inevitable when it took the form of blind,
impersonal disaster. When it was a matter of deliberate, intentional
human motives--it became well-nigh unbearable. Had the tinker gone to
be rid of her company and her temper? Had he decided that the road
was a better place without her? Maybe he had taken the matter of the
other lad too seriously--and, thinking them sweethearts, had counted
himself an undesired third, and betaken himself out of their ways.
Or--maybe--he was fearsome of constables--and had hurried away to
cover his trail and leave her safe.

"Maybe a hundred things," moaned Patsy, disconsolately; "maybe 'tis
all a dream and there's no road and no quest and no Rich Man's son
and no tinker, and no anything. Maybe--I'll be waking up in another
minute and finding myself back in the hospital with the delirium
still on me."

She closed her eyes, rubbed them hard with two mandatory fists, then
opened them to test the truth of her last remark; and it happened
that the first object they fell on was a photograph in a carved
wooden frame on the mantel-shelf in the room across the hall. It was
plainly visible from where Patsy stood by the stairs--it was also
plainly familiar. With a run Patsy was over there in an instant, the
photograph in her hands.

"Holy Saint Patrick, 'tis witchcraft!" she cried under her breath.
"How in the name of devils--or saints--did he ever get this taken,
developed, printed, and framed--between the middle of last night and
the beginning of this morning!"

For Patsy was looking d