"Gracious Heaven!—is she the inmate of a mad-house?" "She is, Sir," answered the woollen-draper, sadly, "driven there by her son's misconduct. " "Not in the least, Sir," replied Tom, in a drowsy tone, and with a look seeming to imply that he was too much accustomed to odd noises at night to heed them. Why on earth couldn’t he leave her to grow in her own way? Her pride rose at the bare thought of return. “Never. Wood could stand it no longer. Plote was sleeping or deaf. You needn’t be in any doubt about it. My friends consider it wonderfully faithful.
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