But I know a little place where we’ll get a little quiet talk. Shortly afterwards,—it seemed an age to the anxious mother,—Mr. 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. Treasure caves to explore! All through these trying days she had recurrently wondered what this strange young man would have to say that Dickens and Hugo had not already said. "No; we never had one; at least, I never saw it. It was nothing like the big church wedding she wanted, but nothing could shame her greater than to have a child out of wedlock. Then they would leave and she would go back to being alone.
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