"My enemy," replied her son. She rapped again, louder. 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. She reads novels—and history—and all sorts of things. Please sit down, Miss —dear me, I haven’t asked you your name yet. It was so hopeless to put it to them. It was enough that Spurlock had been taken aboard The Tigress.
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