“Some things have happened to me,” answered Summerman quietly, seeing everything, pretending to see nothing.  “I lived ten years among the Gipsies.  I belonged to them.  That’s where I had my schooling.  I worked in the tin ware; and clock mending I took up of myself.  I left my people on account of a church-organ.  My father and mother were dead.  I had no brother or sister; nor any relation.  But I had friends, and they would have kept me; but I had to choose between them and the rest.  I couldn’t learn the organ in the woods and meadows; I was caught by the music as easily as a pink by a pin.  But I kept to the clock mending.  I used to travel about on my business once in a while, for a man can’t settle down to four walls and a tread-mill in a minute, when he’s been used to all creation.  Then I learned to take pictures, and I travelled about for a time, carrying the machine with me.  But for the last year I’ve lived in this shop and had the church organ.  So you see how it is.  I have all these things to look after, and I try to keep in tune, and up to pitch.

“You are a happy man,” said Mr. Rush, who had listened with attention to this humble story.  “But,” he added, “you could not understand—­for you have had no cares, no one dependent on you—­how necessary to some persons money is for happiness.  What ruin follows the loss of it.  How many a man would prefer death to such a loss.”

“I guess not,” said Summerman, in a low tone.  “I believe in the Good Will doctrine.”

“What has that to do with it?” asked the stranger, impatiently.

To this Summerman replied, speaking slowly—­humblest acquiescence sounding through his speech.

“When I settled down, and got the situation in the church, I was about to bring her here....  You understand....  She died about that time.  I have not seen her picture.  Her brother had died before.  I was to be the son of the old people.  We were sure that after awhile they would be attracted by our happy home, and by our fireside all their wanderings would end.  They should be free as in the forests....  It is all changed now—­but I am still their son, and I wish nothing better than to work for them.  The old man is failing, and I think that I shall yet persuade them to come and live with me—­we might be one family still—­and it would please her.  If I succeed, there are two or three rooms close by where we can be tolerably happy, all together.  God is not indifferent.  He sees all.  And sure I am that He bears me no ill will.  So it must be for the best.  She used to wear this ribbon around her splendid hair.  She was so young and gay!  It would have done you good to look at such a face.  Sometimes I catch myself thinking what a long, gay life we ought to have lived together—­and I know there’s no wickedness in that.  It’s more pleasant than bitter.”

“So you support the old people,” was the listener’s sole comment.  Not loss, but fidelity—­not grief, but constancy, impressed him while he hearkened to this story.