You never can tell. “Can’t you believe me? I am Meysey Hill. “Don’t befool me any more,” he answered, almost roughly. So long as she could remember, her father had never permitted her to sit at the table unless she came fully dressed. ‘Dolt! Muttonheaded oaf! Why the deuce couldn’t he have sent you home?’ Valade cut in at that. 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. .
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