” “You are jealous,” she declared contemptuously. 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. Practically it was most of the chief interests in life that she proposed to settle in this pedestrian meditation. Of late, however, his plotting had assumed a more dark and dangerous complexion. She had asked to borrow his pencil out of dire necessity.
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