"Owen, Owen," pursued Mrs. Sheppard. " "A novelist?" cried Ruth, thrilling. "I am no man's mistress," answered the widow, crimsoning to her temples, but preserving her meek deportment, and humble tone. Uttering a faint scream, she sank backwards, and would have fallen, if it had not been for the interposition of Blueskin, who, at that moment, staggered into the room with a candle in one hand, and the bottle in the other. ” Lucy would always press her face into her mother’s skirts when she heard the ending, no matter how many times she heard it.
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