“I did, indeed. I met them at that very hotel that was once Queen Caroline's house. There they were diverting themselves,--boating and going about just as if the world had gone all right with them; and Bramleigh told me one morning that he had cashed the last check for fifty pounds.” “And is he really determined to touch nothing of his property till the law assures him that his right is undeniable?” “Worse than that, far worse; he has quarrelled with old Sedley, his father's law-agent for forty years, and threatened him with an action for having entered into a compromise without instructions or permission; and he is wrong, clearly wrong, for I saw the correspondence, and if it goes before a jury, they 'll say at once that there was consent.” “Had he then forgotten it?” asked Julia. “No, he neither forgets nor remembers; but he has a sort of flighty way of getting himself into a white heat of enthusiasm; and though he cools down occasionally into a little common sense, it does n't last; he rushes back into his heroics, and raves about saving him from himself, rescuing him from the ignoble temptation of self-interest, and such like balderdash.” “There must be a great deal of true nobility in such a nature,” said Julia. “I'll tell you what, there is; and it runs through them all except the eldest daughter, and that puppy the diplomatist--there's madness!” “Madness?” “Well, I call it madness. Suppose now I was to decline taking another glass of that wine--Steinheimer, I think it's called--till I saw your brother's receipt for the payment of it, would n't you say I was either mad or something very near it?” “I don't see the parity between the two cases,” said Julia. “Ah, you 're too sharp for me, Miss Julia, too sharp; but I 'm right all the same. Is n't Jack Bramleigh mad? Is it anything but madness for a man to throw up his commission and go and serve as a sailor--before the mast or behind it, I don't care which; but isn't that madness?” Julia felt a sense of sickness almost to fainting, but she never spoke nor stirred, while George, quickly noticing her state, turned towards Cutbill and said,-- “What news have you of him? he was a great favorite of mine.” “Of yours and of everybody's,” said Cutbill. And now the color rushed back to Julia's cheek, and had Cutbill but looked towards her, it is very probable he would greatly have misconstrued the smile she gave him. “I wish I had news of him: but for these last few months I have none. When he got out to China he found that great house, Alcock and Baines, smashed--all the tea-merchants were smashed--and they tell me that he shipped with a Yankee for Constantinople.” “You heard from him, then?” “No; he never writes to any one. He may send you a newspaper, or a piece of one, to show where he is; but he says he never was able to say what was in his head, and he always found he was writing things out of the 'Complete Correspondent.'” “Poor Jack!”