"Safe!" shouted Darrell, as he effected a secure landing. "A vow," she answered,—"a vow to my dead husband. Dese ere not schouts, as you faind, but jonkers on a vrolyk; and if dey'd chanshed to keel de vrow Sheppard's pet lamb, dey'd have done her a servish, by shaving it from dat unpleasant complaint, de hempen fever, with which its laatter days are threatened, and of which its poor vader died. How old are you?” She asked.
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