She had not chosen her life, but she was foggy on whether or not it was right to deny others the right to join her in her suffering. "I can do without it," muttered Jack. Then a servant girl brought in a telegram. Bring the light this way—quick! I cannot decipher the signature. 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. ‘How could I know that it is you?’ She peered at him in the darkness. He gave you a poison. Near the door stood a pile of deal planks, behind which the carpenter ensconced himself in order to reconnoitre, unobserved, the proceedings of his idle apprentice. “Yes, I will go,” she promised, with a queer little smile. May we not repeat them once, at any rate, in London? “Ever yours, “NIGEL ENNISON.
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