"Have nine years so changed me, that there is no trace left of your adopted son?" "God bless me!" ejaculated the carpenter, rubbing his eyes, "can—can it be?" "Surely," screamed Mrs. Grace-church Street was entirely deserted, except by a few stragglers, whose curiosity got the better of their fears; or who, like the carpenter, were compelled to proceed along it. It was a gracious gesture, she thought, as he trudged to the Beck’s humble doorstep in his stiff blue polyester uniform. Almost worthy of your own fertile imagination. And the fact that it was dressed in riding gear had fooled her into thinking it was her own image. "If you don't decide quickly, I'll scream," cried Mrs.
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