At home, however, the contributor related his adventures and the story
of Tinker's life, adding the fact that he had just found out where Mr.
Hapford lived. "It was the only touch wanting," said he; "the whole
thing is now perfect."

"It's _too_ perfect," was answered from a sad enthusiasm. "Don't speak
of it! I can't take it in."

"But the question is," said the contributor, penitently taking himself
to task for forgetting the hero of these excellent misfortunes in his
delight at their perfection, "how am I to sleep to-night, thinking of
that poor soul's suspense and uncertainty? Never mind,--I'll be up
early, and run over and make sure that it is Tinker's Hapford, before he
gets out here, and have a pleasant surprise for him. Would it not be a
justifiable _coup de théâtre_ to fetch his daughter here, and let her
answer his ring at the door when he comes in the morning?"

This plan was discouraged. "No, no; let them meet in their own way. Just
take him to Hapford's house and leave him."

"Very well. But he's too good a character to lose sight of. He's got to
come back here and tell us what he intends to do."

The birds, next morning, not having had the second mate on their minds
either as an unhappy man or a most fortunate episode, but having slept
long and soundly, were singing in a very sprightly way in the wayside
trees; and the sweetness of their notes made the contributor's heart
light as he climbed the hill and rang at Mr. Hapford's door.

The door was opened by a young girl of fifteen or sixteen, whom he knew