“God love thee!  I’m glad to hear it,” said the old man.  “She is a living wonder, boy, a living wonder, an’ had I thy youth I’d give thee worry.”

“Since her mother cannot afford to do it, I wish to send her away to school,” said Trove.

“Tut, tut, boy; thou hast barely enough for thy own schooling.”

“I’ve eighty-two dollars in my pocket,” said Trove, proudly.  “I do not need it.  The job in the mill—­that will feed me and pay my room rent, and my clothes will do me for another year.”

“On me word, boy; I like it in thee,” said Darrel; “but surely she would not take thy money.”

“I could not offer it to her, but you might go there, and perhaps she would take it from you.”

“Capital!” the tinker exclaimed.  “I’ll see if I can serve thee.  Marry, good youth, I’ll even give away thy money an’ take credit for thy benevolence.  Teacher, philanthropist, lover—­I believe thou’rt ready to write.”

“The plan of my first novel is complete,” said Trove.  “That poor thief,—­he shall be my chief character,—­the man of whom you told me.”

“Poor man!  God make thee kind to him,” said the tinker.  “An’ thou’rt willing, I’ll hear o’ him to-night.  When the firelight flickers,—­that is the time, boy, for tales.”

They built a rude lean-to, covered with bark, and bedded with fragrant boughs.  Both lay in the firelight, Darrel smoking his pipe, as the night fell.

“Now for thy tale,” said the tinker.

The tale was Trove’s own solution of his life mystery, shrewdly come to, after a long and careful survey of the known facts.  And now, shortly, time was to put the seal of truth upon it, and daze him with astonishment, and fill him with regret of his cunning.  It should be known that he had never told Darrel or any one of his coming in the little red sleigh.

He lay thinking for a time after the tinker spoke.  Then he began:—­

“Well, the time is 1833, the place a New England city on the sea.  Chapter I:  A young woman is walking along a street, with a child sleeping in her arms.  She is dark-skinned,—­a Syrian.  It is growing dusk; the street is deserted, save by her and two sailors, who are approaching her.  They, too, are Syrians.  One seems to strike her,—­it is mere pretence, however,—­and she falls.  The other seizes the child, who, having been drugged, is still asleep.  A wagon is waiting near.  They drive away hurriedly, their captive under a blanket.  The kidnappers make for the woods in New Hampshire.  Officers of the law drive them far.  They abandon their horse, tramping westward over trails in the wilderness, bearing the boy in a sack of sail-cloth, open at the top.  They had guns and killed their food as they travelled.  Snow came deep; by and by game was scarce and they had grown weary of bearing the boy on their backs.  One waited in the woods with the little lad while the other went away to some town or city for provisions.