"It's an ill wind that blows nobody good," thought the carpenter, turning his attention to the child, whose feeble struggles and cries proclaimed that, as yet, life had not been extinguished by the hardships it had undergone. Could it be him you mean?" "No. You think everything is harmless and simple, and so forth. " "Entreat a fiddlestick!" retorted Mrs. Grudgingly he admired her. ‘If you care for me at all, shoot me. Poor thing! how beautiful she looks! but how like death!" Deathlike, indeed, was the repose of the sleeper,—deathlike and deep. She was alone, and the mask of her unchanging high spirits was for the moment laid aside.
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