"She's given up her rooms."

"What!" exclaimed the Poor Boy.

"And _we're_ going to move to the little house on the corner."

"Then," said the Poor Boy, "what are you doing alone in the woods?"

"Came to find you," said Tinker. "Couldn't get married without you."

"Turn around," cried the Poor Boy. "I'm with you."

He knelt swiftly and took off his skis.

He started to slide an affectionate arm round the older man's shoulders,
but jerked it back before it was too late.

"No," he muttered, "you mustn't try to touch them or they vanish."

"What's that?"

"Just that this is the best thing that ever happened. You're just made
for each other, you two."

They sped on through the pine forest, talking of village matters, of
school matters, and hitching-posts, of politics, of sewers--but mostly
of love.

It was dark when the Poor Boy got back to his own house. But he was very
happy and (in spite of many hot crisp cookies at Mrs. Brown's kitchen
door) very hungry.

After he had dressed and dined, he soaked his hands in hot water to make
them supple, and played Beethoven till far into the night.

Martha went boldly into the room to listen, and sat in a deep chair by
the fire, as was her right. But Miss Joy listened without the door, and
during the Adagio from the Pathetique her hands covered her bowed face
and tears came through the fingers.

Then she crept off to bed, but Martha came before she was asleep to say
good-night.

"Miss Joy," she said, "it's the first time since he came that he's
played; other times he's only fooled and toyed."

"Martha," said Miss Joy, "I think it's the first time that _anybody
ever_ played."

"It's what the Poor Boy does best," said Martha, "and takes the least
pride in. Listen now--he's making up as he goes--there's voices--only
listen--there's one that insists and one that denies--but both their
hearts are breakin'--breakin' in their breasts."

Miss Joy sat straight up in bed. "Listen, Martha--there's a third
voice--things are going to come right for the other two--"

Thus the two women. As for the Poor Boy, he made music because he had
been to a wedding that day and knew that if he got to thinking about it
alone in the dark he might get so unhappy that he would remember where
he had hidden his revolver and his rifles, and get up to look for them.

He played until he was exhausted in body and mind. Then he rose from the
piano, closed it gently, and went to bed. He was v