"He told me that he was going down to catch a trout," replied Miss Clifford; "he has some bet with you, my dear uncle, it seems?" "The boy is mad! irretrievably gone! Bedlam or Saint Luke's, or some of those places they call a _private asylum_, is the only place for him now," exclaimed Sir John Slingsby; "what, gone down to catch a trout, without pausing to take either rest or breakfast, with his hands burnt and a shot in his arm--so that fellow Gimlet said, they tell me." "He seemed very well," answered Miss Clifford; "and he said he had his breakfast before he left the inn." "I don't believe a word of it," answered her uncle; "that's just one of his old tricks, Mary; if there was any thing to be done, he used never to mind breakfast, or dinner, or supper, or any thing else; the matter was always done first, and then he did not mind a good dinner and a bottle of claret, or even two, as the case might be. I never saw such a fellow! We used to call him 'thoughtless Ned Hayward;' but the fact is, he used to think more in five minutes than the rest of us altogether in four-and-twenty hours, and then he was free for the whole day--but here come the letters, and papers; we shall have some news now, and we shall have something to laugh at, with, or because of." Thus saying, Sir John took the bag which was brought to him by the butler, opened it with a key attached to his watch-chain, and drew forth the articles it contained one by one. First came a newspaper in its cover--it was, I suppose, the Times, by its bulk--then another and another. All these were laid down beside him; and next came the small packet of letters, and then, oh! how eager all were to devour the contents. Strange and mysterious mixture of old rags and size, what a world of emotions have you conveyed about this earth! Not the most terrible stage that has ever represented to the eyes of admiring thousands the works of the poet, or displayed the skill of the actor, has produced such deep tragedy as you. How often has the sight of the thin folded sheet, with its strange, crooked black hieroglyphics, overwhelmed the lightest and the gayest heart with heaviness and mourning! how often changed the smile into the tear! how often swept away the gay pageants of imagination, and memory, and hope, and left the past all darkness, and the future all despair! But, on the contrary, how often have ye been the unexpected messengers of happiness and joy! how often have ye brought sunshine and light into the benighted breast! how often dispelled in a moment the dark thunder-clouds of the world's blackest storms,--aye, and sometimes, too, have closed as with a lightning-flash, the black tempestuous day of a long sorrowful life, with a gleam of ecstasy, too intense and potent to survive!