It was fortunate that by this time Winifred had so far recovered, as to be able to afford her father the best and only solace that, under the circumstances, he could have received,—her personal attentions. Mr. What a frightened fool he was! If he could not remember her name, it was equally possible that already she had forgotten his. A fortnight passed, then a month. "Who—who is the Marquis de Chatillon?" "Your adopted son, Thames Darrell," answered Winifred. With what airs we human atoms invest ourselves! What ridiculous fancies of our importance! We believe we have destinies, when we have only destinations: that we are something immortal, when each of us is in truth only the repository of a dream. Of course he hadn't played the game wisely. " "He'll have hard work to do it by that time, father," remonstrated Thames; "you'd better let me help him.
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