" CHAPTER XIV. “Quite on my own,” she said. She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. 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. Bah! She does not know me very well, and you—not at all. She reached the station, and mingling with a crowd of excursionists who had come from the river on the other side, took her place in the train unnoticed. Lead the lad to suppose that he'll be introduced to Lady Trafford. A little inn flying a Swiss flag nestles under a great rock, and there they put aside their knapsacks and lunched and rested in the mid-day shadow of the gorge and the scent of resin. ‘I have no idea. Again silence. She leaned back in her chair. She found herself mildly entertained by staring at the houses through the rain as she walked home, all cast in a gray blurry film noir gauze of rain.
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