Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden. She was glad to join in the stream of hurrying homeward workers that was now welling out of a thousand places of employment, and to imitate their driven, preoccupied haste. "Have nine years so changed me, that there is no trace left of your adopted son?" "God bless me!" ejaculated the carpenter, rubbing his eyes, "can—can it be?" "Surely," screamed Mrs. ’ ‘Well for him,’ remarked Captain Roding.
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