It was not without considerable demur and delay on the part of Sharples that the carpenter and his companion could gain admittance to the round-house. In one of the cabins a man sat on the edge of his narrow bunk. He knew that tragedy was as blind as justice, that it struck the child and the grown-up impartially. Fly! they shall knock me on the head—curse 'em!—before they shall touch you. Here we are absconding, pretending to be what we are not; shady, to say the least of it. Already the seed of a tender dream was stirring. There was no way to warn her of his presence without startling her.
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