And through it all, like a golden thread on a piece of tapestry, weaving in and out of the patterns, the unspoken longing for love. "Gracious Heavens! this is more wonderful than all the rest," cried the carpenter, rubbing his eyes. But a middle-aged man like Ramage ought to know better than to draw out a girl, the daughter of a friend and neighbor. “What has he to do with it?” “He was your sister’s master—her friend. She had left for ever the cage, the galling leash: she was free. Wood, at the top of her voice. Now Owen Wood had one fair child, Unlike her mother, meek and mild; Her love the draper strove to gain, But she repaid him with disdain.
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