We, ourselves, are scarcely the same we were twelve years ago. 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. The brilliant sunshine poured through the window, effecting an oblong block of mote-swimming light. “I got Sydney’s telegram at ten o’clock, and caught the ten-thirty from the Gare du Nord. ] "So much the better. I fancy that Sir John does not approve of me.
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