mn conviction.

In the end Travis gave in. He took his disappointment and his loss
like the true gentleman he was, and sent them away with his blessing,
mixed with an honest twinge of self-pity. It was not, however, until
Patsy turned to wave him a last farewell and smile a last grateful
smile from under the white chiffon, corn-flower sunbonnet that he
remembered that convention had been slighted.

"Wait a minute," he said, running after them. "If I am not mistaken I
have not had the pleasure of meeting your--future husband; perhaps
you'll introduce us--"

For once in her life Patsy looked fairly aghast, and Travis repeated,
patiently, "His name, Irish Patsy--I want to know his name."

The tinker might have helped her out, but he chose otherwise. He kept
silent, his eyes on Patsy's as if he would read her answer there
before she spoke it to Travis.

"Well," she said at last, slowly, "maybe I'm not sure of it
myself--except--I'm knowing it must be a good tinker name." And then
laughter danced all over her face. "I'll tell ye; ye can be reading
it to-morrow--in the papers." Whereupon she slipped her arm through
the tinker's, and he led her away.

And so it came to pass that once more Patsy and the tinker found
themselves tramping the road to Arden; only this time it was down the
straight road marked, "Seven Miles," and it was early evening instead
of morning.

"Do ye think we'll reach it now?" inquired Patsy.

"We have reached it already; we're just going back."

"And what happened to the brown dress?"

"I burned it that night in the cottage--to fool the sheriff."

"And I thought that night it was me ye had tricked--just for the whim
of it. Did ye know who I was--by chance?"

"Of course I knew. I had seen you with the Irish Players many, many
times, and I knew you the very moment your voice came over the road
to me--wishing me 'a brave day.'" The tinker's eyes deepened with
tenderness. "Do you think for a moment if I hadn't known something
about you--and wasn't hungering to know more--that I would have
schemed and cheated to keep your comradeship?"

"Ye might tell me, then, how ye came to know about the cottage--and
how your picture ever climbed to the mantel-shelf?"

"You know--I meant to burn that along with the dress--and I forgot.
What did you think when you discovered it?"

"Faith! I thought it was the picture of the truest gentleman God had
ever made--and I fetched it along with me--for company."