Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. I’ll walk over there once I change clothes. What was it in her heart or mind or soul that went out to this man? Music—was that it? Was he powerless to stir her without the gift? But hadn't he fascinated her by his talk, gentle and winning? Ah, but that had been after he had played for her. The office is a sight—not one sheet of paper on another; bills and receipts everywhere. Here they were regaled with another plentiful meal by the hospitable carpenter, who personally superintended the repast.
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