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. Anna was having tea by herself when she entered. In privacy he read and reread it a dozen times, and eventually destroyed it by fire. What in the world was the wench up to now? For it must be she. She could not speak. Yes, yes; that was all very well in ordinary cases; but yonder was a soul in travail, if ever she had seen one. The solos were revealing, sensual and moody. Hurt beyond what he could imagine by the selfishness and pride of her forbears, whose fateful disputes had robbed her of the life she should have led, the plucky little devil had taken matters into her own hands.
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