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. You can go for a walk with Lucy. She had, by the magic of recollection, set the picture of the typhoon between herself and her table companions: the terrible rollers thundering on the white shore, the deafening bellow of the wind, the bending and snapping palms, the thatches of the native huts scattering inland, the blur of sand dust, and those two outcasts defying the elements. Her heart in her mouth, she heard his foot scrape on the floorboard and knew from his expression that Gosse had heard it too. “Oh God!” she cried, “Oh God!” and flung aside her opera-cloak, and for a time walked about the room—a Corsair’s bride at a crisis of emotion.
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