My nerves are shaken. Let me see my child, if he is really here?" "Behold him!" returned Trenchard, taking Thames (who had been a mute, but deeply-interested, witness of the scene) by the hand, and leading him towards her. Constance Widgett’s abundant copper-red hair was bent down over some dimly remunerative work—stencilling in colors upon rough, white material—at a kitchen table she had dragged up-stairs for the purpose, while on her bed there was seated a slender lady of thirty or so in a dingy green dress, whom Constance had introduced with a wave of her hand as Miss Miniver. ” He shook her diminutive hand. ' Why," said Ruth, "you did not read that to us. That you are not Valade at all, and that I am Melusine Charvill, the granddaughter of monsieur le baron, the general. It was perfectly logical. .
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