" "Could I credit your wild story, I might do so," returned Thames, with a look of perplexity. " At the sound of his voice every vestige of colour fled from Winifred's cheeks, and the work upon which she was engaged fell from her hand. ‘I am perfectly devoted to him, as well he knows. There are some islands upon which he is not permitted to land any more. There is the key. 1703. S. 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. Perhaps it was the recollection of those happy days.
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