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. And you’d better have her fetch in some food for the missie, an’ all. "How sweet these roses are! Shall I put them into water?" "Put them where they came from," replied Mrs. A riding-habit is all I have seen.
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