"What a very remarkable thing it is," he observed, applying to his snuff-box, "that Thames Darrell, whom we all supposed dead,"—Kneebone in his heart sincerely wished he had been so,—"should turn out to be alive after all. Ennison,” she exclaimed, “is that really you?” There was no sign of embarrassment in her manner. Besides," added he, opening the shawl in which the infant was wrapped, and throwing the light of the candle full upon its sickly, but placid features, "it's sinful to repine while you've a child like this to comfort you. I have neither father, mother, brother, sister, nor husband—I have only him. ” His voice assumed an easy detached tone.
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