It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. Nothing, in short, portable or valuable was left. “Will he live?” The doctor shook his head. The night was clear and moonlit, dazzling with even light blue shadows that shone into manicured lawns and pristine gardens. “I am much obliged to you,” he said. "Perhaps you don't know that this Darrell so contrived matters, that your child should be mistaken for his own; by which means it had a narrow escape from a tight cravat, I can assure you. Some of the lunatics were rattling their chains; some shrieking; some singing; some beating with frantic violence against the doors.
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