Wood's," was the reply. ’ She threw a melting look at Roding. Spurlock (himself verging upon the hysterical) welcomed the diversion. 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. The mortal youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all sides Ruth attacked him, innocently. Edward Bribble stood between them with an open book. ’ Lucilla eyed him with one of those particularly feminine looks it was difficult for a mere male to interpret. So, while she watched, distressed and bewildered by her tumbling thoughts, the packet, Canton bound, ruffled the placid waters of the Pearl River. More often then not he refused to reveal specifics of his own past in Greece and Rome, choosing to relate fables and stories of an impersonal nature. He took her hands firmly in his and raised them to his lips.
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