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. The farmer was a widow who was slightly famous around town for his prize cows and slightly more famous for his good looks. You know that I am practically destitute, without means or any certain knowledge of where my next meal is coming from. Seeming to feel that this statement called for explanation, he added, ‘I been working for the sisters six month, see. I think we rest here until to-morrow?” There was a brief silence.
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