Bit priggish, isn’t it? And if he only knew it—so absurd. "Take me, then," replied the widow. Standing on tiptoe, on a joint-stool, placed upon the bench, with his back to the door, and a clasp-knife in his hand, this youngster, instead of executing his appointed task, was occupied in carving his name upon a beam, overhead. So while he talked to this girl of work and freedom, his slightly protuberant eyes were noting the gracious balance of her limbs and body across the gate, the fine lines of her chin and neck. "Well, well; look who's here!" cried Spurlock. You denied it at the time—but unfortunately I have proof.
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