It was Sunday and a clear, frosty morning of midwinter. Trove had
risen early and was walking out on a long pike that divided the
village of Hillsborough and cut the waste of snow, winding over
hills and dipping into valleys, from Lake Champlain to Lake
Ontario. The air was cold but full of magic sun-fire. All things
were aglow--the frosty roadway, the white fields, the hoary forest,
and the mind of the beholder. Trove halted, looking off at the far
hills. Then he heard a step behind him and, as he turned, saw a
tall man approaching at a quick pace. The latter had no overcoat.
A knit muffler covered his throat, and a satchel hung from a strap
on his shoulder.

"What ho, boy!" said he, shivering. "'I'll follow thee a month,
devise with thee where thou shalt rest, that thou may'st hear of
us, an' we o' thee.' What o' thy people an' the filly?"

"All well," said Trove, who was delighted to see the clock tinker,
of whom he had thought often. "And what of you?"

"Like an old clock, sor--a weak spring an' a bit slow. But, praise
God! I've yet a merry gong in me. An' what think you, sor, I've
travelled sixty miles an' tinkered forty clocks in the week gone."

"I think you yourself will need tinkering."

"Ah, but I thank the good God, here is me home," the old man
remarked wearily.

"I'm going to school here," said Trove, "and hope I may see you
often."