Stir a foot, and I strike. His countenance was pale as death, but not a muscle quivered; nor did he betray the slightest appearance of fear. He trembled, not from any superstitious dread, but from an undefined sense of approaching danger. Soon they came to treat Lucy almost as mother, pulling hard at her brown curls and laughing delightedly as they sprang back into their spiral shape. Through all he said ran one quality that pleased her—the quality of a man who feels that things can be done, that one need not wait for the world to push one before one moved. "Did you ever see the like of her?" "No," answered McClintock, gravely.
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