We'll turn the tables upon 'em yet. Thanksgiving Day morning, Shari woke Lucy a half an hour before the sounding of the alarm. Sheppard, vainly trying to discover a gleam of compassion in the thief-taker's inexorable countenance,—"Mercy! mercy!" "Pshaw!" rejoined Jonathan. “I wonder,” she murmured to herself, “if this is the beginning. She was chic, distinguished, unusual. You will find it somewhere in that book. Lucy clasped her hands over her ears as it screamed. Then he hovered undecidedly for some seconds with his hands in his pockets and his mouth puckered to a whistle before he turned to go home by the Avenue. She remained standing stiffly, unable even to move. The wastrel, the ne'er-do-well, who went mostly nobly to a fine end. When she told him that the natives called her The Dawn Pearl, his delight was unbounded.
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