‘Ah, the tragedy. 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. Left alone, Jonathan lighted a lamp, and, opening the trap-door, descended the secret stairs. “So you’re the one my son has been talking about. A very familiar face emerged from a crowd at the impromptu bar on the kitchen island. ‘She?’ ‘Damnation!’ He saw her frown, and added at once, ‘I beg your pardon, ma’am. Then go and fetch this daughter of yourn. The next few hours will tell. "Who's that queer cove in the full-bottomed wig?" "Attend to me, sirrah," rejoined Wild, sternly.
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