" "Where—where?" cried Thames. Now, it was a wilderness of weeds. “I will MAKE you love me! Until he has faded—faded into a memory. “That young man was giving a luncheon party to a dozen friends at the Café de Paris to-day. ‘But then again, possibly not. He walked through the misty September night to his rooms. Gay, the poet, who wrote the 'Captives,' which was lately acted at Drury Lane, and was so much admired by the Princess of Wales. Think if your own mother was alive!” He paused, deeply moved. It was only a few months ago that I told you you must come to London, and you only laughed at me. Down under the incalculable selfishness of the penitent child there was the man's uneasy recollection of Judas. Inquiring for Mrs.
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