These little squares of coloured paper interested her mightily—hotel labels. "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 folds of a thick muslin neckcloth in some degree protected him, but the gash was desperate. ’ ‘Well, let us leave your name for the present. “He must never know,” she would whisper to herself, “he must never know. Selling out of the Army to take up his inheritance had spelled boredom to Gerald Alderley.
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