"What is your name?" To-day, however, he broke the monotony. " "My writing! no such thing!" ejaculated the lady, casting a look of alarm at the woollen-draper. “And then they are swollen up and inflamed and drunken with matter. Probably he has something to say and can't say it, or he writes well about nothing. Her likeness to her sister gave him at first almost a shock; a moment afterwards he was conscious of a wonderful sense of relief. Constance Widgett’s abundant copper-red hair was bent down over some dimly remunerative work—stencilling in colors upon rough, white material—at a kitchen table she had dragged up-stairs for the purpose, while on her bed there was seated a slender lady of thirty or so in a dingy green dress, whom Constance had introduced with a wave of her hand as Miss Miniver. His figure was uncommonly slim even for his age, which could not be more than thirteen; and the looseness of his garb made him appear thinner than he was in reality.
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