"How old is your child?"
"Three years."
"And you? A mere child now."
"I am only nineteen."
"Poor thing! I pity you from the depths of my soul."
The clock struck ten, and the woman started from the table against which she leaned.
"I must not miss the train; I promised to return promptly."
She put on the grey cloak she had thrown aside, buttoned it about her throat, and tied her bonnet strings.
"Before you go, explain one thing. Was not your hair very dark when you were married?"
"Yes, a dark chestnut brown, but when my child was born I was ill a long time, and my head was shaved and blistered. When the hair grew out, it was just as you see it now. Ah! if we had only died then, baby and I, we might have had a quiet sleep under the violets and daisies. I see, sir, you doubt whether I am really little Minnie Merle. Do you not recollect that when you asked for the wedding ring none had been provided, and Cuthbert took one from his own hand, which was placed on my finger? Ah! there was a grim fitness in the selection! A death's head peeping out of a cinerary urn. You will readily recognize the dainty bridal token."