"Thames was always your favourite," observed Jack, as he fastened another piece of wood on the teeth of the iron stopper. "Where?" "That can wait," she answered. Something in his smile, in the cynical suggestiveness of his deferential tone, maddened her. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. But she made a pretence of struggling a little, for it would be out of character for her not to do so and she did not want to arouse his suspicions. "Come to my arms, Thames! Oh! dear! Oh! dear!" To repeat the questions and congratulations which now ensued, or describe the extravagant joy of the carpenter, who, after he had hugged his adopted son to his breast with such warmth as almost to squeeze the breath from his body, capered around the room, threw his wig into the empty fire-grate, and committed various other fantastic actions, in order to get rid of his superfluous satisfaction—to describe the scarcely less extravagant raptures of his spouse, or the more subdued, but not less heartfelt delight of Winifred, would be a needless task, as it must occur to every one's imagination. Better get a dress. “I do not understand. "Yes—what do you mean, Ma'am?" added Jack, staggering after her. Next moment, he had Melusine by the arm. "But I'm a blackguard, too, Ruth.
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