“You’ve got my view,” he said, after a pensive second. " Her son complied, and sat down upon the patch-work coverlet beside her. I do not say guest because that suggests friendship; and I am no friend of this Wastrel. She released her clutch on it as, dizzy with exhaustion, she leaned against the back of the pew and closed her eyes, her fingers grasping out automatically for support. She had never let off a pistol in her life. At length, about an hour before dawn on the second day—Sunday—having spent the early part of the night in watching at the gates of the robbers' sanctuary, and being almost exhausted from want of rest, she set out homewards. The girl stood with her hands behind her back, sulky, resolute, and intelligent, a strand of her black hair over one eye and looking more than usually delicate-featured, and more than ever like an obdurate child. She could not go to him with a preachment against strong drink; she knew from experience that such a plan would be wasted effort.
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