"Mother!" cried the son, "help!" "What is this?" shrieked Lady Trafford, raising herself on the couch, and extending her hands towards him. To his relief, she nodded. "How do I know you are a friend?" asked Darrell. Hurrying down the Haymarket, he was arrested by a crowd who were collected round a street-singer. He, next, tried to clamber up the flying buttresses and soffits of the pier, in the hope of reaching some of the windows and other apertures with which, as a man-of-war is studded with port-holes, the sides of the bridge were pierced. In privacy he read and reread it a dozen times, and eventually destroyed it by fire. Perhaps Ferringhall has pensioned her off.
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