"No Blueskin, I perceive, Sir," he observed, in a deferential tone, as Wild entered the Lodge. "But what, may I ask, arouses the thought?" The doctor was in high good humour. Maggot. "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. A disconcerting gray eye that had a mystifying depth. Others are smart but fall prey to emotional damage, the female lunar instinct of cunning that goes awry. She could not go to him when it was apparent that he needed her beyond all other instances! What had caused this agony did not matter—then. Later, at the bottom of that envelope I found a letter.
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