But not a word to him of Lady Trafford's absence—mind that. 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. Here was no crooked soul; a little weak perhaps, impulsive beyond common, but fundamentally honest. As the body was borne to the house in the arms of the farming-men, Mr. There's a feather in your cap! No house-breaker was ever so highly honoured before. WE don’t think they’re right, but they don’t think we are.
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