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. It was warm, shielding, comforting, and what was more, full of understanding. Had he had the child to think of, he might have recovered from his grief at Mary’s death. His fingers slipped under the collar of her linen shift and he tore it open with a swipe. ‘That little kiss cost him his sanctuary, my girl, and don’t you forget it. "You have betrayed me," said he, in a deep whisper, to his companion; "but you shall reap the reward of your treachery. ” “That is provokingly indefinite,” he answered, a little ruefully.
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