You cannot—shall not retreat. The sing-song girl, her fiddle broken, was beating her forehead upon the floor and wailing: Ai, ai! Ai, ai! Spurlock—or Taber, as he called himself—sat slumped in a chair, staring with glazed eyes at nothing, absolutely uninterested in the confusion for which he was primarily accountable. Sheppard was no sooner alone than she fell upon her knees by the side of the couch, and poured forth her heart in prayer. Sheppard! when I see her thus, and think of all she has endured, of all she may yet have to endure, I could almost pray for her release from trouble. "When did you see him, my love?" "A short time ago," replied the housekeeper, unsuspiciously. .
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