“Let go!” she gasped at him, a blaze of anger. After an affectionate parting with Winifred, Thames was conducted by the carpenter to his sleeping apartment—a comfortable cosy chamber; such a one, in short, as can only be met with in the country, with its dimity-curtained bed, its sheets fragrant of lavender, its clean white furniture, and an atmosphere breathing of freshness. Small blame to her. The whole of that relationship persisted in remaining obscure. Left to himself, he took a survey of the room, and his heart leaped as he beheld over the, chimney-piece, a portrait of himself. ‘That’s just it. “I have hurt my father,” she said; “I have hurt my aunt.
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