"Not a syllable!" answered the carpenter, angrily. She wanted air—and the distraction of having moving and changing things about her. “You go home,” he said, at parting; “you go home. ‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door. With his chisel so fine, tra la! "There!" cried the boy, leaping from the stool, and drawing back a few paces on the bench to examine his performance,—"that'll do.
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