"Young sir," quoth he, "'tis very plain you are one o' the real sort
wi' nothing flash about you, therefore I am the more con-sarned on
your account, and wonder to see the likes o' you sitting alongside the
likes o' me at midnight in Dead Man's Copse--"
"Dead Man's Copse!" I repeated, glancing into the shadows and drawing
nearer the fire. "It is a very dreadful name--"
"But very suitable, young sir. There's many a dead 'un been found
hereabouts, laying so quiet an' peaceful at last--pore souls as ha'
found this big world and life too much for 'em an' have crept here to
end their misery--and why not? There's the poor woman that's lost,
say, and wandering in the dark, but with her tired eyes lifted up to
the kindly stars; so she struggles on awhile, but by an' by come storm
clouds an' one by one the stars go out till only one remains, a little
twinkling light that is for her the very light of Hope itself--an'
presently that winks an' goes, an' with it goes Hope as well, an'
she--poor helpless, weary soul--comes a-creeping into some quiet place
like this, an' presently only her poor, bruised body lies here, for
the soul of her flies away--up an' up a-singing an' a-carolling--back
to the stars!"
"This is a great thought--that the soul may not perish!" said I,
staring into the Tinker's earnest face.
"Ah, young sir, where does the soul come from--where does it go to?
Look yonder!" said he, pointing upwards with his hammer where stars
twinkled down upon us through the leaves.
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