That it provided proof of the girl’s identity was one thing. He beheld a tall gaunt man, his brown face corrugated like a winter's road, grim, stony. ‘She won’t. She opened the door to him herself. Besides," added he, opening the shawl in which the infant was wrapped, and throwing the light of the candle full upon its sickly, but placid features, "it's sinful to repine while you've a child like this to comfort you. See how he gets on, father," he added, appealing to Wood: "the box seems to grow under his hands. The struggle had dislodged the white wimple, which was evidently too large for her, and her black hair broke free, whirling like a whiplash about her head as her hands curled into fists, coming up to beat at his chest, her little teeth bared for attack. . It was very pretty and very dainty while it lasted, but we played it with our eyes open, and we perfectly understood the game—both of us.
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