"I believe he is conscious," she answered. ” “Thanks to me,” he repeated, puzzled. "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. He called to the other attendant, who held the torch. ‘Or do I arrest you and have these soldiers march you off to gaol?’ A sweep of his arm indicated the array of military strength on the benches, every eye of which was trained on the little scene being enacted before them. The life of a girl presented itself to her as something happy and heedless and unthinking, yet really guided and controlled by others, and going on amidst unsuspected screens and concealments. These were less like streets than labyrinths, hewn through an eternal twilight. Yet I fancy that we who have been poor ourselves must be the best judges of the needs of the people.
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