’ ‘And she’d be right,’ Martha said severely. “I heard the other day that she’d been taken in by some cad of a fellow who was cutting a great dash in Paris, personating Meysey Hill, the great railway man. The inner apartment was rather gracefully furnished with a thick, fine Turkish carpet, a good brass fender, a fine old bureau, and on the walls were engravings of two young girls’ heads by Greuze, and of some modern picture of boys bathing in a sunlit pool. "Halloa, widow!" shouted a rough voice from below, "where the devil are you?" Mrs. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. I forget the particulars, but I know it was something very disagreeable.
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