"--Miss Kimmeens is not a professed philosopher, sir," said Mr.
Traveller, presenting her at the barred window, and smoothing her shining
hair, "but I apprehend there was some tincture of philosophy in her
words, and in the prompt action with which she followed them. That
action was, to emerge from her unnatural solitude, and look abroad for
wholesome sympathy, to bestow and to receive. Her footsteps strayed to
this gate, bringing her here by chance, as an apposite contrast to you.
The child came out, sir. If you have the wisdom to learn from a child
(but I doubt it, for that requires more wisdom than one in your condition
would seem to possess), you cannot do better than imitate the child, and
come out too--from that very demoralising hutch of yours."




CHAPTER VII--PICKING UP THE TINKER


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