Michelle looked at their reflections in the wall mirror. 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. Was that it? Had she clothed this unhappy young man with glamour? Or was it because he was so alone? She could not get through the husks to the kernel of what really actuated her. The ragged edge. " "If you mean the fugitive, Darrell, he has escaped through the back window," replied Jonathan. CHAPTER XV. Marry, come up! I'll show him what an injured wife can do. His shouts for help were answered by roars of mockery and laughter.
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