Lucy felt her eyes misting up, turning traitor. And, in addition, she was now seeing and talking to Ramage almost weekly, on a theory which she took very gravely, that they were exceptionally friends. 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. She was alone, and the mask of her unchanging high spirits was for the moment laid aside. Presently the odour of burnt powder mingled agreeably with that of the incense. Arrived within a short distance of his destination, he came to a halt, and pointing out a dark court nearly opposite the woollen-draper's abode, told the chairmen to wait there till they were summoned. Who's the lucky boy, Lucy?\" Lucy looked at her slippered feet.
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