"Before either of you go, you will ask my permission," said Jonathan, coolly. " "Absolutely. “I wonder,” he said, and went off at a tangent. 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. Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood. He had scarcely completed his toilet, when he was startled by a noise at the door, and heard his own name pronounced in no friendly accents.
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