A pretty piece. 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 fixed her eyes upon it and ran, keeping always as far as possible in the shadow of the hedge, gazing fearfully every now and then down along the valley for the white smoke of the train. Then she realized that it was her business to let Manning talk and impose his own interpretations upon the situation so far as he was concerned. . You can test it out on us this Thanksgiving Sunday. “This is all madness,” she declared wearily.
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