" "My poor son!" groaned the widow, sinking backwards. With his chisel so fine, tra la! "There!" cried the boy, leaping from the stool, and drawing back a few paces on the bench to examine his performance,—"that'll do. ” “Nothing that one wants. Woman's love of silk is not set by fashion; it is bred in the bone; and somewhere, somehow, a woman will have her bit of silk. As she did so the preparation-room door opened behind her. John finally wrested her away from the company of his parents, insisting that he wanted to take a walk in the park before it was completely dark.
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