“Well, it is for once,” said Hope.  “Why, you little duffer, don’t you see the bridge is too low?”

He slackened the string, removed the bridge, fitted on a higher one, tuned it, and handed it over.

“There,” said he, “play us one of the tunes of Egypt.  ’The Rogue’s March,’ eh? and mizzle.”

The supple Oriental grinned and made obeisances, pretended not to know “The Rogue’s March” (to the hen-house), and went off playing “Johnny Comes Marching Home.” (Bridewell to wit.)

Then did Miss Clifford’s French maid trip forward smirking with a parasol to mend:  Desolee de vous deranger, Monsieur Hope, mais notre demoiselle est au desespoir:  oh, ces parasols Anglais!

“Connu,” said Hope, “voyons ca;” and in a minute repaired the article, and the girl spread it, and went off wriggling and mincing with it, so that there was a pronounced horse-laugh at her minauderies.

Then advanced a rough young English nurse out of a farm-house with a child that could just toddle.  She had left an enormous doll with Hope for repairs, and the child had given her no peace for the last week.  Luckily the doll was repaired, and handed over.  The mite, in whose little bosom maternal feelings had been excited, insisted on carrying her child.  The consequence was that at about the third step they rolled over one another, and to spectators at a little distance it was hard to say which was the parent and which the offspring.  Them the strapping lass in charge seized roughly, and at the risk of dislocating their little limbs, tossed into the air and caught, one on each of her own robust arms, and carried them off stupidly irritated—­for want of a grain of humor—­at the good-natured laugh this caused, and looking as if she would like to knock their little heads together.

Under cover of this an old man in a broad hat, and seemingly infirm, crept slowly by and looked keenly at Hope, but made no application.  Only while taking stock of Hope his eyes flashed wickedly, and much too brightly for so old a man as he appeared.  He did not go far; he got behind a tree, and watched the premises.  Then a genuine old man and feeble came and brought Hope his clock to mend.  Hope wound it up, and it went to perfection.  The old man had been a stout fellow when Hope was a boy, but now he was weak, especially in the upper story.  Hope saw at once that the young folk had sent him there for a joke, and he did not approve it.

“Gaffer,” said he, “this will want repairing every eight days; but don’t you come here any more; I’ll call on you every week, and repair it for auld lang syne.”

Whilst he toddled away, and Hope retired behind his lathe to study his model in peace, Monckton raged at the sight of him and his popularity.

“Ay,” said he, “you are a genius.  You can model a steam-engine or mend a doll, and you outwitted me, and gave me fourteen years.  But you will find me as ingenious as you at one thing, and that’s revenge.”