A little kindness would not bring the world tumbling about her ears. A disconcerting gray eye that had a mystifying depth. 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. Since the accession of George the First to the throne in the preceding year, every effort had been made by the partisans of the Stuarts to shake the credit of the existing government, and to gain supporters to their cause. "Nothin'—nothin'," returned Blueskin; "only I thought—" "You saw the hangman, no doubt," said Jack. Sister Angelina shook her head as if to say that such ignorance was beyond her. A shiver slid down inside her. Or had she, like himself, been held up until the fellow returned to town? He waited, his ready humour anticipating her likely reaction. Besides, the sun had gone in and it looked like rain.
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