Mother and Son. It began as a joke. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. He was instantly overpowered, and stretched upon the ground. . Yes!" she screamed, "these are his father's features! It is—it is my son!" "Mother!" cried Thames; "are you, indeed, my mother?" "I am, indeed—my own sweet boy!" she sobbed, pressing him tenderly to her breast. A creature of convenience, she could have cared less if her children were carried away by drunkards on the street. "Your father—poor imbecile!—believes we ran away together. You are your nephew's executioner, or he is yours. I cannot go on. There was now no honest way of warning Taber that the net had been drawn. “After all, it’s our honeymoon. ” He said to her with as much casualness as he could muster.
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