She still had her letter of credit. "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. “Why, what is the matter with you? What do you mean?” Annabel laughed scornfully. Miss Ellicot, who sang ballads, and liked Brendon to turn over the pages for her, tossed her head. His name was Bartolomeo di Alberti. "Sounds as if I had heard it, but I can't place it this minute.
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