" "You did right," returned Trenchard. Thames took it, and beheld the portrait of a young man, apparently—judging from his attire—of high rank, whose proud and patrician features certainly presented a very striking resemblance to his own. It was dry, as if she had powdered it. A crisis of some kind was toward. He fell back upon the pillows with a little moan, clutching the slim white fingers fiercely. No one. He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn. He knew it absolutely, as if he had the check in his hand. “When are you going away?” He asked. ” He started back as though he had been shot. It was the only way to make the monthly bills.
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