‘Marry an Englishman! Which Englishman?’ Melusine shrugged. I am sure. Presently. 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. She did not therefore reveal to him that he had guaged her with accuracy. ‘You were his daughter.
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