Sheppard had been interred. Practically it was most of the chief interests in life that she proposed to settle in this pedestrian meditation. " "Then this is not my child?" exclaimed she, with increased astonishment. "Come to my arms, Thames! Oh! dear! Oh! dear!" To repeat the questions and congratulations which now ensued, or describe the extravagant joy of the carpenter, who, after he had hugged his adopted son to his breast with such warmth as almost to squeeze the breath from his body, capered around the room, threw his wig into the empty fire-grate, and committed various other fantastic actions, in order to get rid of his superfluous satisfaction—to describe the scarcely less extravagant raptures of his spouse, or the more subdued, but not less heartfelt delight of Winifred, would be a needless task, as it must occur to every one's imagination. "I am sorry. She hoped the lights would become hot enough to melt her into the floor.
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