"Where am I?" she cried, passing her hand across her brow. It was a purse. We have to hang about in the interval. " CHAPTER XIX. ” She eyed him scornfully. . 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. He knew that at this moment Ruth lay upon her bed in torment, for she was by nature tender; and the reaction of her scathing words, no matter how justifiable, would be putting scars on her soul. "What does he say?" roared the long drover.
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