"Thank you, Mrs. Your name?" "Owen Wood," replied the carpenter; "I've no reason to be ashamed of it. "I am no man's mistress," answered the widow, crimsoning to her temples, but preserving her meek deportment, and humble tone. That old world that had shoved up that silly old hotel, and all the rest of it. And you’re as clean as fire. She rested for a half hour in heaven on earth, feeling herself drift in and out of sleep. “I am fairly well known here. ” “Nobody does that,” said Ramage, and kept silence for a moment. By degrees, his fears vanished, and hearing nothing, he grew calmer. Wood's," was the reply. What was it in her heart or mind or soul that went out to this man? Music—was that it? Was he powerless to stir her without the gift? But hadn't he fascinated her by his talk, gentle and winning? Ah, but that had been after he had played for her. "I cannot do it. She thought of her father in the garden, and of her aunt with her Patience, as she had seen them—how many ages was it ago? Just one day intervened.
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