. 256 Lucy chose her words carefully. 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. " "Alas!" cried Mrs. "Constance is yet living. The chapel was crowded to excess. ” She replied. ‘What in the world is that?’ demanded Miss Froxfield. She was not quite clear how she should find it, but she felt she would. He was tall, slender, and suave. Sepulchre's bell is for ever ringing in my ears—oh!" "If that's the case," observed Wood, "I'm surprised you should like to have such a frightful picture constantly in view as that over the chimney-piece. Then perhaps it is Prudence?’ ‘Oh la la! That is not me at all. What do you think, Annabel?” “I don’t think they would,” she admitted.
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