’ ‘Well, sir? Who is “she”? Not my granddaughter, I take it. “I believe she’s dressing up-stairs—now. 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. ’ ‘I thought you were dead,’ Melusine confided. ” “Our cases are scarcely similar,” Anna remarked.
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