"Ha!" he exclaimed, with a sudden start, as his glance fell upon the portrait; "how came this into your possession, boy?" "Why don't you answer, sirrah?" cried Wild, in a savage tone, and striking him with the silver staff. But they found him on the veranda when they returned from McClintock's that evening. The spinster saw herself growing warm again in the morning sunshine of youth —a flaring ember before the hearth grew cold. Left to himself, he took a survey of the room, and his heart leaped as he beheld over the, chimney-piece, a portrait of himself. "It is useless," replied Mrs. O'Higgins know the truth; he wouldn't be reckless with the funds, then. Ann Veronica could at the same time ask herself what this queer old gentleman could have meant by speaking to her, and know—know in general terms, at least—what that accosting signified. But come in, dear. "My mother!—my poor mother!" ejaculated Thames, falling on his knees, and bursting into tears. Her heart in her mouth, hoping against hope, Melusine made her way back to where she had left the boy. I'm thinking that the Wastrel was one day a celebrated professional; and the women were partly the cause of his fall. But there was something else; and in his befogged mental state the comparison eluded him. If only we are not divided.
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