She acted as her mother had taught her to. Sheppard, struggling to escape, and holding the infant at arm's length; "have mercy on this helpless innocent!" And the child, alarmed by the strife, added its feeble cries to its mother's shrieks. And if the woman is not a rival, she must be—yes, that must be it. I was to blame to carry the matter so far. "It is not too late to repair the wrong I have done my nephew," cried Trenchard. Give me your hand. She wanted his attention, but so did everyone else. The sing-song girl, her fiddle broken, was beating her forehead upon the floor and wailing: Ai, ai! Ai, ai! Spurlock—or Taber, as he called himself—sat slumped in a chair, staring with glazed eyes at nothing, absolutely uninterested in the confusion for which he was primarily accountable. "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. “What a hideous repertoire! If you are in earnest about wanting to earn money, why on earth don’t you accept an engagement here?” “An engagement?” she queried.
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