And this old pupil who was being married. It
was insupportably conceited and selfish in the old
pupil to be married. She was very vain, and very
glad to show off; but it was highly probable that
she wasn't pretty; and even if she were pretty
(which Miss Kimmeens now totally denied), she
had no business to be married; and, even if
marriage were conceded, she had no business to ask
Miss Pupford to her wedding. As to Miss Pupford,
she was too old to go to any wedding. She ought
to know that. She had much better attend to
her business. She had thought she looked nice
in the morning, but she didn't look nice. She
was a stupid old thing. G was another stupid
old thing. Miss Pupford's assistant was another.
They were all stupid old things together.

More than that: it began to be obvious that
this was a plot. They had said to one another,
"Never mind Kitty; you get off, and I'll get
off; and we'll leave Kitty to look after herself.
Who cares for her?" To be sure they were right
in that question; for who did care for her, a poor
little lonely thing against whom they all planned
and plotted? Nobody, nobody! Here Kitty
sobbed.

At all other times she was the pet of the whole
house, and loved her five companions in return
with a child's tenderest and most ingenuous
attachment; but now, the five companions put on
ugly colours, and appeared for the first time
under a sullen cloud. There they were, all at
their homes that day, being made much of, being
taken out, being spoilt and made disagreeable,
and caring nothing for her! It was like their
artful selfishness always to tell her when they came
back, under pretence of confidence and friendship,
all those details about where they had been,
and what they had done and seen, and how often
they had said "O! If we had only darling little
Kitty here!" Here indeed! I dare say! When
they came back after the holidays, they were
used to being received by Kitty, and to saying
that coming to Kitty was like coming to another
home. Very well then, why did they go away?
If they meant it, why did they go away? Let
them answer that. But they didn't mean it, and
couldn't answer that, and they didn't tell the
truth, and people who didn't tell the truth were
hateful. When they came back next time, they
should be received in a new manner; they should
be avoided and shunned.

And there, the while she sat all alone revolving
how ill she was used, and how much better she
was than the people who were not alone, the
wedding breakfast was going on: no question of
it! With a nasty great bride-cake, and with
those ridiculous orange-flowers, and with that
conceited bride, and that hideous bridegroom,
and those heartless bridesmaids, and Miss
Pupford stuck up at the table! They thought they
were enjoying themselves, but it would come
home to them one day to have thought so. They
would all be dead in a few years, let them enjoy
themselves ever so much. It was a religious
comfort to know that.

It was such a comfort to know it, that little
Miss Kitty Kimmeens suddenly sprang from the
chair in which she had been musing in a corner,
and cried out, "O those envious thoughts are
not mine, this wicked creature isn't me! Help
me somebody! I go wrong, alone by my
weak self. Help me anybody!"

"—Miss Kimmeens is not a professed
philosopher, sir," said Mr. Traveller, presenting her
at the barred window, and smoothing her shining
hair, "but I apprehend there was some tincture
of philosophy in her words, and in the
prompt action with which she followed them.
That action was, to emerge from her unnatural
solitude, and look abroad for wholesome
sympathy, to bestow and to receive. Her footsteps
strayed to this gate, bringing her here by chance,
as an apposite contrast to you. The child came
out, sir. If you have the wisdom to learn from a
child (but I doubt it, for that requires more
wisdom than one in your condition would seem
to possess), you cannot do better than imitate
the child, and come out too—from that very
demoralising hutch of yours."

VII.
PICKING UP THE TINKER.

IT was now sunset. The Hermit had
betaken himself to his bed of cinders half an hour
ago, and lying on it in his blanket and skewer
with his back to the window, took not the
smallest heed of the appeal addressed to him.

All that had been said for the last two hours,
had been said to a tinkling accompaniment
performed by the Tinker, who had got to work
upon some villager's pot or kettle, and was
working briskly outside. This music still
continuing, seemed to put it into Mr. Traveller's
mind to have another word or two with the
Tinker. So, holding Miss Kimmeens (with
whom he was now on the most friendly terms)
by the hand, he went out at the gate to where
the Tinker was seated at his work on the
patch of grass on the opposite side of the road,
with his wallet of tools open before him, and
his little fire smoking.

"I am glad to see you employed," said Mr.
Traveller.

"I am glad to be employed," returned the
Tinker, looking up as he put the finishing
touches to his job. "But why are you glad?"

"I thought you were a lazy fellow when I
saw you this morning."

"I was only disgusted," said the Tinker.

"Do you mean with the fine weather?"

"With the fine weather?" repeated the
Tinker, staring.

"You told me you were not particular as to
weather, and I thought—"

"Ha, ha! How should such as me get on,
if we was partickler as to weather? We must
take it as it comes, and make the best of it.
There's something good in all weathers. If it
don't happen to be good for my work to-day,
it's good for some other man's to-day, and will