Quilt, who was an ardent lover of mischief, could not help laughing most heartily at the rueful appearance of these personages. She reached a tiny yellow-fronted cottage covered with flowering creepers, and entered the front room by the wide-open window. Aunt Jane had her quiet moments. He could scarcely blame her. 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. He had kissed his wife on the mouth … and had been horrified! There was real madness somewhere along this road.
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