Do you know whoso portrait this is?" "I do not," replied Thames, repressing his tears, "but I believe it to be the portrait of my father. I've watched this lad—this Sheppard—from infancy; and, though I have apparently concerned myself little about him, I have never lost sight of my purpose. Was he really awake? The arrival and departure of this strange father lacked the essential human touch to make it real. He leaned forward, and looked into the eyes of the woman he loved, and it seemed to him that she sang back to him with a sudden note of something like passion breaking here and there through the gay mocking words which flowed with such effortless and seductive music from her lips. I want him as my friend. "The door!—the door!—death!" he added, as he tried the handle, "it is locked—and I am unarmed.
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