Kneebone's door, you begged me to await your return here, assuring me you would not detain me five minutes. Ben had scarcely adjusted his oars, when the gleam of a lantern was seen moving towards the bank. 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. “My dear boy,” she exclaimed.
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