“I’ll run, too,” she volunteered. Indeed it was apparent, from the likeness between them, that they were nearly related. 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. Never sent for the shirt. The thought of the picture but added to her despondency. “My friends,” she said, “my dear friends, I am going to make the same answer to all of you—and that is perhaps you will say no answer at all. Once she heard him mutter, and she leaned down. And mind he doesn't stir out of your sight, on any pretence whatever, till I call. Are you prepared to do it?” Her hands clenched.
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