Wood, carving for his friends, and pledging the carpenter, he had his hands full. “He ran some Austrian fellow off. It may be, it probably will all come to, nothing. His father was one of my old customers, and I am happy to find his son treading in his steps. She was carefree. Her first impulse was to fly to the window; and she was about to pass through it, at the risk of sharing the fate of the unfortunate lady, when her arm was grasped by some one in the act of ascending the ladder from without. He spoke the automatic thought that entered his mind. “You are very kind to think of it,” she said, “but—don’t you think perhaps—that I had better not?” He smiled indulgently. It has all been a mistake.
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