She was not a reversion to type, which intimates the primordial; she suggested rather the incarnation of some goddess of the South Seas. "Mac, did you ever run across a missioner by the name of Enschede?" "Enschede?" McClintock stared at the ceiling. Perhaps these few words were the first real conscious words he had uttered in days. Sheppard, who had again looked round towards her son, beheld a hand glance along the side of the woollendraper. There was nothing to be learned from her face. "In the first place, she had no knowledge of her birth; and, consequently, no false pride to get rid of.
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