A crisis of some kind was toward. The brown house, almost exactly the same as the Beck’s, turned black as pitch in the gloom. "Somebody ought to get hold of that young man," said Prudence, grimly, as she nodded in Spurlock's direction. Amongst others, a person near the door, roused by the shriek, observed a man make his exit with the utmost precipitation. “MY DEAR MISS STANLEY,” it began,—“I hope you will forgive my bothering you with a letter, but I have been thinking very much over our conversation at Lady Palsworthy’s, and I feel there are things I want to say to you so much that I cannot wait until we meet again. Very slowly emerging out of a phase of stupefaction, these personal affairs and her personal problem resumed possession of her mind. “But—” The long inconsecutive conversation by that time was getting on her nerves. Wood, as, having seen the earth thrown over the remains of the unfortunate Mrs. Young people ignore them until they find themselves up against them. 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.
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