It was now sunset.  The Hermit had betaken himself to his bed of cinders half an hour ago, and lying on it in his blanket and skewer with his back to the window, took not the smallest heed of the appeal addressed to him.

All that had been said for the last two hours, had been said to a tinkling accompaniment performed by the Tinker, who had got to work upon some villager’s pot or kettle, and was working briskly outside.  This music still continuing, seemed to put it into Mr. Traveller’s mind to have another word or two with the Tinker.  So, holding Miss Kimmeens (with whom he was now on the most friendly terms) by the hand, he went out at the gate to where the Tinker was seated at his work on the patch of grass on the opposite side of the road, with his wallet of tools open before him, and his little fire smoking.

“I am glad to see you employed,” said Mr. Traveller.

“I am glad to be employed,” returned the Tinker, looking up as he put the finishing touches to his job.  “But why are you glad?”

“I thought you were a lazy fellow when I saw you this morning.”

“I was only disgusted,” said the Tinker.

“Do you mean with the fine weather?”

“With the fine weather?” repeated the Tinker, staring.

“You told me you were not particular as to weather, and I thought—­”

“Ha, ha!  How should such as me get on, if we was particular as to weather?  We must take it as it comes, and make the best of it.  There’s something good in all weathers.  If it don’t happen to be good for my work to-day, it’s good for some other man’s to-day, and will come round to me to-morrow.  We must all live.”

“Pray shake hands,” said Mr. Traveller.

“Take care, sir,” was the Tinker’s caution, as he reached up his hand in surprise; “the black comes off.”

“I am glad of it,” said Mr. Traveller.  “I have been for several hours among other black that does not come off.”

“You are speaking of Tom in there?”

“Yes.”

“Well now,” said the Tinker, blowing the dust off his job:  which was finished.  “Ain’t it enough to disgust a pig, if he could give his mind to it?”

“If he could give his mind to it,” returned the other, smiling, “the probability is that he wouldn’t be a pig.”

“There you clench the nail,” returned the Tinker.  “Then what’s to be said for Tom?”

“Truly, very little.”

“Truly nothing you mean, sir,” said the Tinker, as he put away his tools.

“A better answer, and (I freely acknowledge) my meaning.  I infer that he was the cause of your disgust?”