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. “There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead. At any rate she must see me. Why was he there? why did the tempter dare to invade that sacred spot! She could not answer her own questions, but vague fearful suspicions passed through her mind. “I saw him stagger and sink down, and the pistol was smoking still in my hand. Perhaps I am still mad. "My schemes have succeeded tolerably well hitherto.
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