\"It's getting late John. 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. The shape of the head, the height and breadth of the brow, the angle of the nose, the cut of the chin and jaws, all were fine, of a type she had never before looked upon closely. The joy of being loved thrilled her as nothing before had ever done, a curious abstract joy which had nothing in it at that moment of regret or even pity. “It isn’t quite that we’re toys. But between us, we'll have him writing books some day. " "Only three days," reiterated the widow, "three short short days,—and then all is over.
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