This elegant stranger,
who had emerged from mystery to disturb the Christmas day of a humble
organist, now leaned on the friendly arm of the little man, walking along
with him, _not_ as he once sauntered through the promenade, a butterfly
disdaining all but the brightest of sunbeams, the sweetest of flowers.
Poor worm! he was half frozen in this wintry brightness, this exhilarating
atmosphere, in which Summerman throve so well.
"Are all the men that are born in woods and meadows, and brought up
tinkers, like you?" he asked.
"No," answered Summerman. "Some turn out fools, and some knaves, and some
ten times better men and wiser men, than I shall ever be."
"Like the rest of the world. Are men, men everywhere?"
"Pretty much. You talk about your wits. You were made to do a bigger
business than I shall ever do. Go home and begin it. I've a mind to go
with you, so you shan't lose your way."
"You know the way so well," said Rush. He had not before spoken as he now
spoke, almost cheerfully, almost hopefully. Here was this fellow that told
fortunes, daring to prophesy good days for him! But then, was he not a
bankrupt? And if he lived--a beggar still?
* * * * *
The sun had set, and the faces of the two men were again turned to the
village.
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