” “Yes. I was the black sheep, I was hurried out of the way. " "I expect no commiseration," returned Mrs. ‘It is what my father intended. "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. "Let me see," replied Wood; "exactly twelve years ago last November. I want to know who sent you those. There was some one there. People had started filling the hall: instrumentalists, overly conscientious parents. What does she look like?’ ‘Black hair.
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