Lucy felt the hairs on her neck rise. And we are not traders looking at equivalents. 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. She gave her lips to his without resistance. "Oh, lud! what's that?" exclaimed a female voice, from an adjoining room. " "But, do hear what it is," rejoined Winifred; "you know I'm shortly to be united to your nephew,—that is," she added, blushing, "when he can be married by his right name, for my father won't consent to it before. But one day he came to me. ” “Why on earth—? A man ought to be labelled.
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