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Of all crafts,—and it was the only craft his poor father, who, to do him justice, was one of the best workmen that ever handled a saw or drove a nail, could never understand,—of all crafts, I say, to be an honest man is the master-craft. ‘You don’t favour her, bar the black hair. She had agonized over it for weeks. “I am so sorry to have startled you,” she said, “but I was startled myself. “But I’m afraid you are going to be in a hopeless minority here as regards me. The sun was setting, casting long dreary shadows across deformed apple trees. But he died when he was a child—long ago—long ago—long ago.
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