I tell you what, Thames," he added, flinging himself carelessly into a chair, "I'd give my right hand,—and that's no light offer for a carpenter's 'prentice,—if that little minx were half as fond of me as she is of you. Do you want me, too?” “Yes,” she whispered foolishly, in the throes of rapture. The thought of the picture but added to her despondency. “It’s precious unromantic. She had but to choose. ’ ‘You’re going?’ asked his friend, and the note of relief was marked. In any place her beauty would have been an uncommon thing. .
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