And then, as she stood there, with the fragments of the torn canvas at her feet, some even caught upon her skirt, the door was thrown open, and a girl entered humming a light tune. All in a moment. Wood, in his Sunday habiliments and Sunday buckle. Sheppard was enabled to take possession of the premises. “There is no—Good God!” he exclaimed. From a scout stationed at the northern entrance, whom she addressed in the jargon of the place, with which long usage had formerly rendered her familiar, she ascertained that Blueskin, accompanied by a youth, whom she knew by the description must be her son, had arrived there about three hours before, and had proceeded to the Cross Shovels. Beneath that tree let us lie.
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