"You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. Throwing down the pencil, she snatched up a piece of India-rubber, and exclaiming,—"It isn't at all like him! it isn't half handsome enough!" was about to efface the sketch, when Thames darted into the room. " "You are the kindest man I have ever known," said Ruth, unashamed of her tears. With such qualifications as she possessed, two chief channels of employment lay open, and neither attracted her, neither seemed really to offer a conclusive escape from that subjection to mankind against which, in the person of her father, she was rebelling. “I murdered them, John. .
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