"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. He remained standing by the stem of the proa, his glance roving investigatingly. It was—in connection with this man Hill. There was a hint of tears in her voice. He had barely settled at his desk in his library, when he was disturbed by two morning callers. He might spend the rest of his days at McClintock's in perfect security. But one was clearly the goddess among them, her face hidden, her body seeming to call out to me to possess it at once. " Just then, the infant began to sob piteously.
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