” He sighed. “Alone, dear?” “Yes, aunt. ’ ‘He said!’ Melusine uttered scornfully. We were only—les autres. One post-midnight meeting, she could stand it no longer. But we're neglecting the punch all this time. 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. With his chisel so fine, tra la! "There!" cried the boy, leaping from the stool, and drawing back a few paces on the bench to examine his performance,—"that'll do.
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