Her mother was a goddess to her all through her youth, the mysterious ruler of all things beautiful and wonderful and lunar, her eyes that glinted spectral blue, as if she had the knowledge and the magic to raise the very dead. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation. Here were the passionate lovers! What their past had been he neither cared nor craved to know. She awoke and found herself home amid a pile of three bodies, one of which she recognized as a former denizen of the household. Once she heard him mutter, and she leaned down. "What has happened?" asked Sister Prudence. “Your mother was a Gypsy. You cannot depart hence.
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