She rang again with the same result. She will sail, at early dawn to-morrow, for Rotterdam. 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. He stuck to the shop as long as it was necessary, and longer, in my opinion. Couldn’t make head nor tail of that note of yours.
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