The soil was identical, the climate; still, they would not bear the Olympian fruit, with its purple-lined jacket and its snow-white pulp. It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac. Of all crafts,—and it was the only craft his poor father, who, to do him justice, was one of the best workmen that ever handled a saw or drove a nail, could never understand,—of all crafts, I say, to be an honest man is the master-craft. He trembled violently. “To be an actress,” he said, “you require a special and peculiar temperament. The small bed’s hospital corners had been put into disarray by Michelle’s crying fit.
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