"He's not my son," rejoined the carpenter. " "To be sure you are," replied Jonathan, laughing. No matter how many books one read, each was different, as each human being was different. “I really owe him something of an apology. "I should be perfectly miserable if I thought you in earnest. But I forget," he added, glancing at Austin; "it's high treason to speak disrespectfully of Mr. To-night the subtle suggestiveness of those few daring lines, fascinating in their very simplicity, the head thrown back, the half-closed eyes—the inner meaning of the great artist seemed to come to him with a rush.
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