She became as The Tigress, a free thing. On this side of the canal she has no place to go. "Is this Misther Wudd's, my pretty miss?" demanded the rough voice of the Irish watchman. ‘They’ve gone, miss,’ came the answer, muffled through the panel door. Three little letters can’t make a bit of difference. “You poor little girl!” he cried. Plain, wide-mouthed, freckled, and ugly, she was an instantly jealous creature, her saving grace that she took no pains to mask her extreme dislike 47 of petite, pretty girls. He was scarcely concealed when he heard the horsemen, who perceived they had overshot their mark, ride back. He saw now that it was merely a boy. Sheppard, fervently. How to hold her, how to keep her at his side; this was the problem with which he struggled.
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