He had no wish to drag the footman out of his way, once he had got his questions answered. He touched her hand, soft and cool to his fingers—she turned at once to look at him. Her faithful servant struggled, with her assistance, to rise. Hearing the approach of the rider, Mr. “Well?” she said. 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.
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