A burst of thunder seemed to sound in Brandon’s ears as he heard this, which he had never even remotely imagined. The tailor was occupied with his own thoughts, and did not notice the wildness that for an instant appeared in Brandon’s eyes. The latter for a moment felt paralyzed and struck down into nothingness by the shock of that tremendous intelligence. “The people felt dreadfully about it,” continued the tailor, “but they couldn’t do any thing. It was Potts who had the family taken to the alms-house. Nobody dared to interfere.” “Did none of the county families do anything?” said Brandon, who at last, by a violent effort, had regained his composure. “No. They had all been insulted by the old man, so now they let him suffer.” “Had he no old friends, or even acquaintances?” “Well, that’s what we all asked ourselves, Sir; but at any rate, whether he had or not, they didn’t turn up--that is, not in time. There was a young man here when it was too late.” “A young man?” “Yes, Sir.” “Was he a relative?” “Oh no, Sir, only a lawyer’s clerk; wanted to see about business I dare say. Perhaps to collect a bill. Let me see; the lawyer who sent him was named Thornton.” “Thornton!” said Brandon, as the name sank into his soul. “Yes; he lived at Holby.” Brandon drew a long breath. “No, Sir; no friends came, whether he had any or not. They were all sick at the alms-house for weeks.” “And I suppose they all died there?” said Brandon, in a strange, sweet voice. “No, Sir. They were not so happy.” “What suffering could be greater?” “They do talk dreadfully in this town, Sir; and I dare say it’s not true, but if it is it’s enough to make a man’s blood ran cold.” “You excite my curiosity. Remember I am an American, and these things seem odd to me. I always thought your British aristocrats could not be ruined.” “Here was one, Sir, that was, anyhow.” “Go on.” “Well, Sir, the old man died in the alms-house. The others got well. As soon as they were well enough they went away.” “How did they get away?” “Potts helped them,” replied the tailor, in a peculiar tone. “They went away from the village.” “Where did they go?” “People say to Liverpool. I only tell what I know. I heard young Bill Potts, the old fellow’s son, boasting one night at the inn where he was half drunk, how they had served the Brandons. He said they wanted to leave the village, so his father helped them away to America.” “To America?” “Yes, Sir.” Brandon made no rejoinder. “Bill Potts said they went to Liverpool, and then left for America to make their fortunes.” “What part of America?” asked Brandon, indifferently. “I never saw or heard of them.” “Didn’t you, Sir?” asked the tailor, who evidently thought that America was like some English county, where every body may hear of every body else. “That’s odd, too. I was going to ask you if you had.” “I wonder what ship they went out in?”