The girl had told him distinctly that her name was Anna. E. 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 could not see clearly. I leaned over and looked at him—he was quite still. I was raised in the Church. Well, my dear, it is time you stopped wallowing in your sorrows like a common wretch.
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