“Very well!” said the old man, with emphasis, “and sailors—­that is a just inference.  It was a big port, and far people came on the four winds.  Very well!  Now, for the young lady.  An’ away with thy book unless I love her.”

“She is from life—­a simple-hearted girl, frank and beautiful and—­” Trove hesitated, looking into the dying fire.

“Noble, boy, make sure o’ that, an’ nobler, too, than girls are apt to be.  If Emulation would measure height with her, see that it stand upon tiptoes.”

“So I have planned.  The young man loves her.  She is in every thought and purpose.  She has become as the rock on which his hope is founded.  Now he loves honour, too, and all things of good report.  He has been reared a Puritan.  By chance, one day, it comes to him that his father was a thief.”

The boy paused.  For a moment they heard only the voices of the night.

“He dreaded to tell her,” Trove continued; “yet he could not ask her to be his wife without telling.  Then the question, Had he a right to tell?—­for his father had not suffered the penalty of the law and, mind you, men thought him honest.”

“’Tis just,” said Darrel; “but tell me, how came he to know his father was a thief?”

“That I am thinking of, and before I answer, is there more you can tell me of him or his people?”

Darrel rose; and lighting a torch of pine, stuck it in the ground.  Then he opened his leathern pocket-book and took out a number of cuttings, much worn, and apparently from old newspapers.  He put on his glasses and began to examine the cuttings.

“The other day,” said he, “I found an account of his mother’s death.  I had forgotten, but her death was an odd tragedy.”

And the tinker began reading, slowly, as follows:—­

“‘She an’ her mother—­a lady deaf an’ feeble—­were alone, saving the servants in a remote corner o’ the house.  A sound woke her in the still night.  She lay a while listening.  Was it her husband returning without his key?  She rose, feeling her way in the dark and trembling with the fear of a nervous woman.  Descending stairs, she came into a room o’ many windows.  The shades were up, an’ there was dim moon-light in the room.  A door, with panels o’ thick glass, led to the garden walk.  Beyond it were the dark forms of men.  One was peering in, his face at a panel, another kneeling at the lock.  Suddenly the door opened; the lady fell fainting with a loud cry.  Next day the kidnapped boy was born.’”

Darrel stopped reading, put the clipping into his pocket-book, and smothered the torch.

“It seems the woman died the same day,” said he.

“And was my mother,” the words came in a broken voice.

Half a moment of silence followed them.  Then Darrel rose slowly, and a tremulous, deep sigh came from the lips of Trove.

“Thy mother, boy!” Darrel whispered.