"Spare him!" cried Mrs, Sheppard, who fancied she had made some impression on the obdurate breast of the thief-taker,—"spare him! and I will forgive you, will thank you, bless you. It had rained during the night, and the patch-work pavement was greasy with mud. I hope I may never come near her. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. She padded up the stairs to the bedroom, finding that her sheets had been changed with a fresh pillow case to welcome her weary head. " "What a life!" "No worse than yours. " "So do I!" she cried; "for then you would have been really my brother. Forgetting the dark thoughts of his last brush with the girl, he dropped the dagger back in his pocket, quickened his pace, and went back into the house to look for his hostess. .
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