I waited, hoping she would recover herself and return; but, after ten minutes had passed, I thought it better to go away.
As I had told her, I was going to her father’s shop.
There I was received very differently. There was a certain softness in the manner of the carpenter which I had not observed before, with the same heartiness in the shake of his hand which had accompanied my last leave-taking. I had purposely allowed ten days to elapse before I called again, to give time for the unpleasant feelings associated with my interference to vanish. And now I had something in my mind about young Tom.
“Have you got anything for your boy yet, Thomas?”
“Not yet, sir. There’s time enough. I don’t want to part with him just yet. There he is, taking his turn at what’s going. Tom!”
And from the farther end of the large shop, where I had not observed him, now approached young Tom, in a canvas jacket, looking quite like a workman.
“Well, Tom, I am glad to find you can turn your hand to anything.”
“I must be a stupid, sir, if I couldn’t handle my father’s tools,” returned the lad.
“I don’t know that quite. I am not just prepared to admit it for my own sake. My father is a lawyer, and I never could read a chapter in one of his books—his tools, you know.”
“Perhaps you never tried, sir.”