“Ho!  Charity,” said the clock tinker, turning as if to address one behind him.  “Sweet Charity! attend upon this boy.  Mayhap, sor,” he continued meekly.  “God hath blessed me with little knowledge o’ what is possible.  But I speak of a time before guilt had sored him.  He was officer of a great bank—­let us say—­in Boston.  Some thought him rich, but he lived high an’ princely, an’ I take it, sor, his income was no greater than his needs.  It was a proud race he belonged to—­grand people they were, all o’ them—­with houses an’ lands an’ many servants.  His wife was dead, sor, an’ he’d one child—­a little lad o’ two years, an’ beautiful.  One day the boy went out with his nurse, an’ where further nobody knew.  He never came back.  Up an’ down, over an’ across they looked for him, night an’ day, but were no wiser, A month went by an’ not a sight or sign o’ him, an’ their hope failed.  One day the father he got a note,—­I remember reading it in the papers, sor,—­an’ it was a call for ransom money—­one hundred thousand dollars.”

“Kidnapped!” Trove exclaimed with much interest.

“He was, sor,” the clock tinker resumed.  “The father he was up to his neck in trouble, then, for he was unable to raise the money.  He had quarrelled with an older brother whose help would have been sufficient.  Well, God save us all! ‘twas the old story o’ pride an’ bitterness.  He sought no help o’ him.  A year an’ a half passes an’ a gusty night o’ midwinter the bank burns.  Books, papers, everything is destroyed.  Now the poor man has lost his occupation.  A week more an’ his good name is gone; a month an’ he’s homeless.  A whisper goes down the long path o’ gossip.  Was he a thief an’ had he burned the record of his crime?  The scene changes, an’ let me count the swift, relentless years.”

The old man paused a moment, looking up thoughtfully.

“Well, say ten or mayhap a dozen passed—­or more or less it matters little.  Boy an’ man, where were they?  O the sad world, sor!  To all that knew them they were as people buried in their graves.  Think o’ this drowning in the flood o’ years—­the stately ships sunk an’ rotting in oblivion; some word of it, sor, may well go into thy book.”

The tinker paused a moment, lighting his pipe, and after a puff or two went on with the tale.

“It is a winter day in a great city—­there are buildings an’ crowds an’ busy streets an’ sleet’in the bitter wind.  I am there,—­an’ me path is one o’ many crossing each other like—­well, sor, like lines on a slate, if thou were to make ten thousand o’ them an’ both eyes shut.  I am walking slowly, an’ lo! there is the banker.  I meet him face to face—­an ill-clad, haggard, cold, forgotten creature.  I speak to him.

“‘The blessed Lord have mercy on thee,’ I said.

“‘For meeting thee?’ said the poor man.  ‘What is thy name?’

“‘Roderick Darrel.’

“‘An’ I,’ said he, sadly, ‘am one o’ the lost in hell.  Art thou the devil?’