"O Diana," I pleaded, "don't be offended, and don't--do not trouble
your dear head over that foolish book--"
"Foolish!" she exclaimed indignantly. "Why, it's to teach ladies how
to behave, and written by--"
"By a snuffy old rascal in some pothouse, like as not, Diana--" Here
she turned and hasted away, but I sped after her and seeing the quiver
of her lips and her dear eyes a-swim with tears, my own grew moist
also.
"O Peregrine," sighed she, "I thought the book was foolish too--but
for your sake--to be a lady--"
"O girl!" I cried, clasping her to me. "Dear goddess of the Silent
Places, you are above all such silly pettinesses as this book; no
woodland nymph or dryad could ever learn such paltry affectations and
Diana herself would look a fool with a fan or a reticule. It is your
own sweet, natural self I love, just as you are and for what you are."
"But you're a gentleman and I ought to be a lady."
"Be my own goddess Diana, and let me worship you as such."
"Why, then, let me go, Peregrine, for your goddess has the supper to
prepare!" Reluctantly I obeyed her, and coming back, found the Tinker
seated upon his anvil, lost in a profound meditation.
"What is it, Jerry?" I asked him, for he had sighed deeply.
"Ah, Peregrine," said he, without lifting his head, "oh, lad,
lad--I've missed more than I thought--Love's a wonderful thing, far
better and more beautiful than I ever dreamed it; pain and grief lose
half their bitterness when Love looks at us from a woman's eyes and
Death itself would come kinder--less dreadful, for the touch o' the
loved hand, the sound o' the loved voice when the shadows gather.
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