A pretty name for a pretty girl. He envied her a little. Here they were regaled with another plentiful meal by the hospitable carpenter, who personally superintended the repast. The sing-song girl, her fiddle broken, was beating her forehead upon the floor and wailing: Ai, ai! Ai, ai! Spurlock—or Taber, as he called himself—sat slumped in a chair, staring with glazed eyes at nothing, absolutely uninterested in the confusion for which he was primarily accountable. He stood with his hands in his pockets looking at Miss Klegg’s back. "You have forgotten your knife, Mr. ” Anna looked at her sister gravely.
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