All through that brief but measureless space of time during which wonder kept him silent, as fear did her, she cowered there, a limp helpless object. Spurling bit her lips to conceal her mirth. The weed was all right. You know—if you want freedom. "Why, so it is," she said, in mock astonishment. Sheppard, with a laugh that cut the ears of those who listened to it like a razor,—"Do not despair! And who or what shall give me comfort when my son is gone? I have wept till my eyes are dry,—suffered till my heart is broken,—prayed till the voice of prayer is dumb,—and all of no avail.
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