"I don't think he would," acquiesced the carpenter. “And as for praying for faith—this sort of monologue is about as near as any one of my sort ever gets to prayer. "Have nine years so changed me, that there is no trace left of your adopted son?" "God bless me!" ejaculated the carpenter, rubbing his eyes, "can—can it be?" "Surely," screamed Mrs. . Your history, your actions, nay, your very thoughts are better known to me than to your spiritual adviser. Miss Mary and me, and Martha too sometimes. That is, if Spurlock had been throwing money about, which was more than likely.
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