“Now you look happy. "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. "Souls," she answered, drily. She dreaded living off the land again, like an animal, as she had done for dozens of years at a stretch. "My own father!" Queerly the room and its objects receded and vanished; and there intervened a series of mental pictures that so long as she lived would ever be recurring. He was a comforting, humorous old ruffian; but there were few men in the Orient more deeply read in psychology and physiognomy. "You're right Jack," he said, after a pause, during which he contemplated the picture with the most fixed attention: "this must have been my father!" "No doubt of it," answered Sheppard; "only compare it with Winny's drawing, and you'll find they're as like as two peas in a pod.
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