She's not for pleasure, but for work. Either you have had to love people or hate them—which is a sort of love, too, in its way—to get anything out of them. Making her couch upon a heap of hay, she sank at once into a deep and refreshing slumber. That handsome, finely drawn face belonged to a soul with clean ideals. With his chisel so fine, tra la! "There!" cried the boy, leaping from the stool, and drawing back a few paces on the bench to examine his performance,—"that'll do. Here he obtained some breakfast, and mounting the hill turned off into the fields on the right.
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