"It wasn't Mave Sullivan, but the Prophet's own daughter, you took away.

Blessed be God, I've saved her that disgrace.
Father, help me home.

I won't be long a throuble to you now." "What's this!" exclaimed Henderson.

"Are you not Miss Sullivan ?" "Am I in a dhrame ?" said the Prophet, approaching the door of the chaise.

"Surely--now--what is it?
It's my daughter's voice! Is that Sarah that I left in her bed of typhus faver this night?
Or, am I in a dhrame still, I say?
Sarah, is it you?
Spake." "It is me, father; help me home.