Lucy arranged her hair as Michelle had taught her instead of combing it out. 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. Aroused by the sound of the church bells, he resolved, at whatever risk, to attend Divine service. One group at the door attracted Jack's attention, inasmuch as it was composed of several of his old acquaintances—Mr. Lucy was sent reeling into a stone wall, which she hit with a great thud. “The fellow is not such a blackguard, after all.
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