" "Thank'ee, Sir," grinned Sheppard. “My dear Vee!” Her voice became very low. And, turning to his daughter, he gave the necessary directions in a low tone. "Who isn't it like?" he asked, endeavouring to gain possession of the drawing, which, af the sound of his footstep, she crushed between her fingers. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. Let us pass, Sir. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. “But I still think of my old foster brothers and sisters.
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