Ah Cum was not a sailor, but he knew his water-front. 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 played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. All the influences about her worked with her own predisposition and against all the traditions of her home and upbringing to deal with the facts of life in an unabashed manner. “I have scarcely left his side. You shall hear from me to-morrow.
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