She drew it out with shaking fingers. "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. I owed his father a grudge: that I settled long ago. Ain’t enough as I’ve got militiamen quartered on me this se’ennight, lazing about all day, eating me out of house and home and drinking my liquor into the bargain. "Never—never!" The words were scarcely pronounced, when the door was violently thrown open, and two men appeared at it. "Thank you; but I've a pocket full of water-chestnuts. ” “And no one else—has a key?” “I believe,” she said, “that that man must have one. "Zounds! what's that!" he cried, as the noise of a scuffle was heard behind them. Lucy jammed her foot down onto Mark McCloskey’s forehead. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. .
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