She wrenched her head away from his grip and got her arm between his chest and hers. " "Is she alive?" repeated the widow. 1. Yes!" she screamed, "these are his father's features! It is—it is my son!" "Mother!" cried Thames; "are you, indeed, my mother?" "I am, indeed—my own sweet boy!" she sobbed, pressing him tenderly to her breast. ‘Tchah! So you’re the whelp’s girl, are you? Suppose you’ve nothing but that villainous French in your tongue. She tried to think what she should do in this eventuality or that. She felt he was going to say something more—something still more personal and intimate. I would love to think of how beautiful your children will be!” “I want to be with you.
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