Putting his own construction upon this mute interchange of opinions, Jonathan ventured to observe, that it certainly was a very perplexing case, but that he thought something might be made of it, and, if left to him, he would undertake to manage the matter to the Master's entire satisfaction. He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. 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. As silent as she had remained about who had brought her home last night. They pressed more insistently, forcing her lips open. A sob was strangled in her throat. From now on, you’re going to listen to me for a change. We meant to make it dinner and a theatre, but you were not home. I overlooked the mechanical imperfections of your work, the utter lack of finish, the crudeness of your drawing. To the poor carpenter it seemed an endless distance. My mother really wants to meet you.
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