The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations. “As she asked!” “It is already too late. . “We’re going to be sensible. The grate was full of fluttering ashes of burnt paper, and the easy chair near the fire had evidently been used. 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. But if not himself, there would be another soon enough.
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