” The young man accepted the letter and the message, and seemed about to close the door when a lady issued from one of the front rooms and intervened. She was alone with a deadly enemy. On the envelope was written— Sydney Courtlaw, Esq. The theme was a masquerade. Crack went the whip, and away floundered the heavy vehicle through the deep ruts of the ill-kept road, or rather lane, (for it was little better,) which, then, led across Southampton Fields. “Ann Veronica has never looked quite so well, I think,” said Capes, clinging, because of a preconceived plan, to the suppressed topic. The queer phase of the dream was this, she was at no time a woman; she was symbolical of something, and he followed to learn what this something was. We are expecting a visit from Sir John Ferringhall at any moment. A blow from the iron bar instantly stretched the ruffian on the floor. She had a feeling at his departure as of an immense cavity, of something enormously gone; she could not tell whether it was infinite regret or infinite relief. "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. The thought of the picture but added to her despondency.
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