"Then here is a waste of good quassia," said Martin, "and I think
your name is Robin Rue."

"It is," said Robin, "and you are Martin Pippin, to whom I owe more
than to any man living. But the primrose you brought me is dead this
five-and-twenty days."

"And what of your Gillian?"

"Alas! How can I tell what of her? She is where she was and I am
here where I am. What will become of me?"

"There are riddles without answers," observed Martin.

"I can answer this one. I shall fall into a decline and die. And yet
I ask no more than to send her a ring to wear on her finger, and
have her ring to wear on mine."

"Would this satisfy you?" asked Martin.

"I could then cling to life," said Robin Rue, "long enough at least
to finish my spraying."

"We may praise God as much for small mercies," said Martin
pleasantly, "as for great ones; and trees must not be blighted that
were appointed to fruit."

So saying, he unstraddled his legs and dropped into the road,
tickled an armadillo with his toe, twirled the silver ring on his
finger, and went away singing.