She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl. " There had never been, from that fatal hour eight months gone down to this, the inclination to confess. Lucy acted the part of savoring the end of the meal, but it was difficult. Her aunt had secretly sent on to Ann Veronica some new warm underclothing, a dozen pairs of stockings, and her last winter’s jacket, but the dear lady had overlooked those boots. Worse than any man. I have been sitting with him ever since. “MY DEAR MISS PELLISSIER,— “To-morrow the six months will be up. Anything in the least irregular is like poison to him.
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