On a bench at the foot of the trees, with a pipe in his mouth, and a tankard by his side, sat the worthy carpenter, looking the picture of good-heartedness and benevolence. "Where are you going?" she asked. "Forgive me—oh, forgive me!" "Forgive you—bless you!" she gasped. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha.
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