His sister appeared. So, in broken, rather breathless phrases, he told his story; and when he had done, he laid his arms upon the table and bent his head to them. ‘Precisely,’ agreed Gerald. ‘How did you know that Mary was his daughter?’ Gerald hesitated. If so I shall have to leave. 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. They lived in a castle, the same place she had been turned in. Listen to me, Winifred.
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