She kept her eyes closed. A new restlessness seemed to have stolen in upon her. “Most of it is ugly and frowsy,” she declared, “but it isn’t worth talking about. While Thames modestly expressed a hope that he might not belie the carpenter's favourable prediction, Jack Sheppard thought fit to mount a small ladder placed against the wall, and, springing with the agility of an ape upon a sort of frame, contrived to sustain short spars and blocks of timber, began to search about for a piece of wood required in the work on which he was engaged. The thin stream of blood on which her eyes were fastened with a nameless horror reached almost to her feet. “I meant to say good-bye to you to-night. She was wan and white. The walls rocked, the footrail of the bed wavered, and the girl's head had the nebulosity of a composite photograph. I'll see. 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. Jarvis did not leave a will.
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