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The Storm. “The Holy Ghost! The Pope! My mother!” She squealed. An immediate halt took place. "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. If the Wastrel had not turned the instant he did, the ball would have missed him; as it was he turned directly into its path. This "fatal retreat for the unfortunate brave" was marked by a low wooden railing, within which stood the triple tree. . . ” And she knew that she was safe.
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