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"The Wastrel seemed to take it all right. 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. He never cries nor frets, as children generally do, but lies at my bosom, or on my knee, as quiet and as gentle as you see him now. And he had good reason before long to congratulate himself on his forbearance. The Mohocks. How on earth does it concern you?” Annabel laughed hardly. She came to adore them. But I trusted to that ring of yours. Her mind went on generalizing. Anna stood on the step and looked up and down the street for a hansom. “My sister is sure to be out.
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