She herself, and one other there, recognized the interposition of something akin to tragedy. 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. The door crashed back against the wall inside and both men hurtled into the room, weapons at the ready—and stopped dead. "Save him," replied Jonathan. " "How does Jack bear it?" inquired Mrs. "Where is he?" he cried. She spoke readily enough, but there was a new timidity in her manner.
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