“You are too good for me,” she said in a low voice. The completest capitulation would not wipe out that trouble. 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, suppose I've no place to lock 'em up in, how then?" Quilt looked a little perplexed.
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