It was now whitening, hissing, and seething like an enormous cauldron. 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. He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss. " "Where did he get it?" inquired Wood, in surprise. ’ ‘I’m afraid you are right. You're in a more serious scrape than you imagine. Without care he will die. ‘Do you know, Mademoiselle Charvill, you are a thought too clever for your own good. Who is to say that I am not André Valade, an obscure relation of the late vicomte. “Thank Heaven, they are bringing the hors d’oeuvres. "He will kill me," cried Thames. He sent a speculative glance at the immobile yellow face.
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