“I don’t know much about the technique of music,” he said at last, with his eyes upon her. 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. There were dark rims under her eyes, soft now with unshed tears. But he died when he was a child—long ago—long ago—long ago.
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