Standing on tiptoe, on a joint-stool, placed upon the bench, with his back to the door, and a clasp-knife in his hand, this youngster, instead of executing his appointed task, was occupied in carving his name upon a beam, overhead. She leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes. “Do you know, I have been wondering what had become of you,” she said. "You mistake,—you are mine.
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