As the night advanced, Mr. "Ah!" he exclaimed, as the painting was turned towards him. “I wonder if it is. 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. " "Winny, I must go!" said Thames, breaking from her. She wondered who the girl might belong to as she patted dirt over the shallow grave. Despair engulfed her at the horrid remembrance that the one particular Englishman she knew to be sympathique did not at all wish to marry her. Men had tried to kiss her— unshaven derelicts, some of them terrible—but she had always managed to escape. She did not bother with the backpack despite its due tomorrow status. .
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