"Poor little thing!" he said at last, and still more pathetically than
he had uttered the same words at her appearance in front of the stage;
"'tis all for her grandfather; I guess,--I guess."

"Oh," cried Lionel, joyfully, "I am so glad to think that. It alters the
whole case, you see, Vance."

"It don't alter the case of the three pounds," grumbled Vance. "What's
her grandfather to me, that I should give his grandchild three pounds,
when any other child in the village would have leaped out of her skin to
have her face upon my sketch-book and five shillings in her pocket? Hang
her grandfather!"

They were now in the main road. The Cobbler seated himself on a lonely
milestone, and looked first at one of the faces before him, then at the
other; that of Lionel seemed to attract him the most, and in speaking it
was Lionel whom he addressed.

"Young master," he said, "it is now just four years ago, when Mr. Rugge,
coming here, as he and his troop had done at fair-time ever sin' I can
mind of, brought with him the man you have seen to-night, William Waife;
I calls him Gentleman Waife. However that man fell into sick straits,
how he came to join sich a carawan, would puzzle most heads. It puzzles
Joe Spruce, uncommon; it don't puzzle me."

"Why?" asked Vance.

"Cos of Saturn!"

"Satan?"