in silence to the
accompanying pounding and scraping of the tinker, who worked
unceasingly. When they sat down to dinner at last there was a
tableful--the woman and her husband, Patsy, the tinker, and the
"hands," and before them was spread the very best the farm could
give. It was as if the woman wished to pay their free-will gift of
service with her unstinted bounty.

"We always ask a blessin'," said the farmer, simply, folding his
hands on the table, about to begin. Then he looked at Patsy, and,
with that natural courtesy that is common to the true man of the
soil, he added, "We'd be pleased if you'd ask it."

Patsy bowed her head. A little whimsical smile crept to her lips, but
her voice rang deep with feeling: "For food and fellowship, good
Lord, we thank Thee. Amen!" And she added under her breath, "And
take a good grip of the Rich Man's son till we get him."

* * * * *

The late afternoon found them back on the road once more. They parted
from the farmer and his wife as friend parts with friend. The woman
slipped a bundle of food--bread, cheese, and meat left from the
dinner, with a box of berries--into Patsy's hand, while the man gave
the tinker a half-dollar and wished him luck.

Patsy thanked them for both; but it was not until they were well out
of earshot that she spoke to the tinker: "They are good folk, but
they'd never understand in a thousand years how we came to be
traveling along together. What folks don't know can't hurt them, and
'tis often easier holding your tongue than trying to explain what
will never get through another's brain. Now put that lunch into your
kit; it may come in handy--who knows? And God's blessing on all kind
hearts!"

Whereupon the tinker nodded solemnly.

They had tramped for a mile or more when they came to a cross-roads
marked by a little white church. From the moment they sighted it
Patsy's feet began to lag; and by the time they reached the crossing
of the ways she had stopped altogether and was gazing up at the
little gold cross with an odd expression of whimsical earnestness.

"Do ye know," she said, slowly, clasping the hands long shorn of the
vagabond gloves--"do ye know I've told so many lies these last two
days I think I'll bide yonder for a bit, and see can Saint Anthony
lift the sins from me. 'Twould make the rest o' the road less
burdensome--don't ye think?"

The tinker looked uncomfortably confused, as though this sudden