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. But perhaps I had better get a room in an hotel to-night and look round. She threw her arms around Rollo's neck and laid her cheek upon the flea-bitten head. Good looks, with a melancholy cast, always drew sentimental females.
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