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. She had done forever with the Age of Chivalry, and her own base adaptations of its traditions to the compromising life. To be alone with her, in idleness, was an intolerable thought. It will be a little lonely sometimes,” she said, looking around at them, “and I shall miss you all, but it is the fairest for myself —and I think for you. Her foster father had been outside for most of the morning, working on trimming the maple trees and mowing the lawn. ‘Gérard!’ ‘Yes, it’s I,’ he said, and grinned.
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