"Your son," replied Jack,—"your miserable, repentant son. "Sir!" exclaimed Winifred, rising. I’m ashamed to confess it, but I didn’t want the charge of you—a too close reminder of my own lost babe. He took her hand and looked into her eyes and spoke, divided against himself, in a voice that was forced and insincere. ” Her thoughts went into solution for a time, while she listened to a lark singing. Who could say that the girl's father had not once been a fashionable clergyman in the States and that drink had got him and forced him down, step by step, until—to use the child's odd expression—he had come upon the beach? She was cynical, this spinster.
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