"Look at these fetters," returned Thames, holding up his manacled wrists; "they were put on by my uncle's command. Drink this!” He poured out a glass of wine with a firm hand, and held it to her lips. Her foster father had been outside for most of the morning, working on trimming the maple trees and mowing the lawn. The thought of the picture but added to her despondency. He saw that she was tense. To the point however. Wood, who had been absent on business during the greater part of the day, returned (perhaps not altogether undesignedly) at an earlier hour than was expected, to his dwelling in Wych Street, Drury Lane; and was about to enter his workshop, when, not hearing any sound of labour issue from within, he began to suspect that an apprentice, of whose habits of industry he entertained some doubt, was neglecting his employment. “For nothing, do you call it?” he declared. “See you at school tomorrow. If I’m late again I’ll have to serve another detention!” She excused herself, hoping it was not too obvious she was running away. “Did I do something wrong?” He asked. What was yet more worthy of note was, that the widow's countenance had an air of refinement about it, of which it was utterly destitute before, and which seemed to intimate that her true position in society was far above that wherein accident had placed her. “Have you not missed me?” He inquired.
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