She looked up and said, a little breathlessly, “I’m sorry, aunt, but I don’t think I can. I have plenty in common with Mike. Ennison,” she exclaimed, “is that really you?” There was no sign of embarrassment in her manner. "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. I snatched it up, pointed it blindly at him, and fired. What would happen to her? Would her soul be shaken, twisted, hypnotized?—as it had been those other times? Music—that took out of her the sense of reality, whirled her into the clouds, that gave to her will the directless energy of a chip of wood on stormy waters. The lights rolled over, and were extinguished.
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