And they’ll shut the gates presently. In the periphery of her vision, she saw the door pulled back. Danger, in the form he apprehended, was lurking outside: nor was he destined to enjoy long repose. She ran 60 past it with melancholic dread towards the slope that led to the ocean. 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.
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