McClintock will have some. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. Happily they had no one else to wait for, and it heartened her mightily to think that she had ordered the promptest possible service of the dinner. Fear nothing. 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. No tricks would serve.
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