I'll tell you something. They must be for your father. 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. The dusky obscurity of the room was twice welcome. She had prepared herself to meet violent protest, a recurrence of that burning glance. She looked, Dorothée said, just as she always looks. Together they crept through the erstwhile drawing room and entered the massive flagged hall.
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