She knew she was pregnant when she missed her period in the first weeks of August that year. Austin could scarcely credit his senses when he beheld him. She was delivered home by 11:30pm. The fanatic has no such word in his vocabulary. There was a round table covered, not with the usual “tapestry” cover, but with a plain green cloth that went passably with the wall-paper. The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. “I love you. 'He that woos a maid',— fol-de-rol—(hiccupping). Be so good as to let me pass, sir,” she added, looking her obstructor steadily in the face. He had quite enough to see to and worry about in the City without their doing things. Conceiving himself called upon, as the intimate friend of the deceased, to pay this last tribute of respect to her memory, he appeared as one of the chief mourners.
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