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. "Well?" he said, as Spurlock reached his side. “I believe,” he said, “that you mean me to be Prime Minister. Everything I could do! Your father sat up all night. You tell me he didn't like the stuff.
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