So I drew near to the shop, feeling as if the Lord might be at work
there at one of the benches. And when I reached the door, there was
my pale-faced hearer of the Sunday afternoon, sawing a board for a
coffin-lid.

As my shadow fell across and darkened his work, he lifted his head
and saw me.

I could not altogether understand the expression of his countenance
as he stood upright from his labour and touched his old hat with
rather a proud than a courteous gesture. And I could not believe
that he was glad to see me, although he laid down his saw and
advanced to the door. It was the gentleman in him, not the man, that
sought to make me welcome, hardly caring whether I saw through the
ceremony or not. True, there was a smile on his lips, but the smile
of a man who cherishes a secret grudge; of one who does not
altogether dislike you, but who has a claim upon you--say, for an
apology, of which claim he doubts whether you know the existence. So
the smile seemed tightened, and stopped just when it got half-way to
its width, and was about to become hearty and begin to shine.

"May I come in?" I said.

"Come in, sir," he answered.

"I am glad I have happened to come upon you by accident," I said.

He smiled as if he did not quite believe in the accident, and
considered it a part of the play between us that I should pretend