"Ah!" he exclaimed, "a letter, beginning 'dearest Aliva,'—that's your mother's name, Thames. Ennison kicked it away with his foot. It 163 invariably leads to trouble. “Your sister’s future is at stake. 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. ‘But do you think I can blame you for this, Marthe?’ ‘I blame myself. And, though neither peace nor innocence can be restored to my bosom; though tears cannot blot out my offences, nor sorrow drown my shame; yet, knowing that my penitence is sincere, I do not despair that my transgressions may be forgiven. There were mysterious rustlings that made him glance hopefully toward the sea. I thought that you loved Paris and your work so much.
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