"I should think so," responded the lethargic turnkey, with a yawn. 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. Only she was conscious of an unfamiliar and wonderful emotion. “Called myself Anna,” the girl repeated coolly. ” Mr. Capes—the ‘Capes crave,’ they would call it in America. Forgive my daring. ‘Well, shan’t I come to the major’s house up Stratton Street, sir?’ ‘I’ll give the major your report, Trodger.
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