But that, and that sort of thing, is just a day-dream. Do you know whoso portrait this is?" "I do not," replied Thames, repressing his tears, "but I believe it to be the portrait of my father. Fretting and fidgeting, he had, after an hour or so, turned to McClintock. Who was he to tread on her dreams? She had heroworshipped an unscrupulous adventurer, who had not hesitated to impose on her youth and her ignorance. Only promise me this. with you. Youth! You denied me even that," said Ruth, her glance now flashing to her father.
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