“Are you a special sort of clergyman,” she said, after a pause, and looking down her nose at him, “or do you go to the Universities?” “Oh!” he said, profoundly. 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. America, the land of rosy apples and snowstorms, beckoned, and she wanted to fly thitherward. “I want a plain word with you about all this. They had a universe to talk about—two universes. She climbed slowly towards it, keeping close to the hedge side, fragrant with wild roses, and holding her skirts high above the dew-laden grass. “The point is we’re not toys, toys isn’t the word; we’re litter. Now I know that you don’t live as close to the Beck house as you once pretended.
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