She had asked to borrow his pencil out of dire necessity. The individual twist was always there, even in the cleverest forgeries. Assessing him as harmless, she had remained friendly, albeit aloof. 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. She had been built for canvas and oil-lamps, and this new thingumajig that kept her nose snoring at eight knots when normally she was able to boil along at ten, and these unblinking things they called lamps (that neither smoked nor smelled), irked and threatened to ruin her temper. Jackson, I could almost fancy we had met before.
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