She had been in the drawing-room for a few minutes before the gong had sounded, and had chattered gaily to every one. By this action, Lucy already knew what the answer was. “I don’t think you see,” she replied, with tears on her cheeks, and her brows knitting, “how it shames and, ah!—disgraces me—AH TISHU!” She put down the tray with a concussion on her toilet-table. 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. ‘And for you, monsieur le major, it will be well if you do not make me a shock like this again. ” “That will follow,” said Kitty Brett—“that will follow.
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