wearing widow's silk, and such a cap as best became her matron and motherly braids of hair. Hers, too, was a good face; too marked, perhaps, now for beauty, but not for sense or character. She was little changed; something sterner, something more robust—but she was my godmother: still the distinct vision of Mrs. Bretton.
I kept quiet, yet internally I was much agitated: my pulse fluttered, and the blood left my cheek, which turned cold.
"Madam, where am I?" I inquired.
"In a very safe asylum; well protected for the present: make your mind quite easy till you get a little better; you look ill this morning."
"I am so entirely bewildered, I do not know whether I can trust my senses at all, or whether they are misleading me in every particular: but you speak English, do you not, madam?"
"I should think you might hear that: it would puzzle me to hold a long discourse in French."
"You do not come from England?"
"I am lately arrived thence. Have you been long in this country? You seem to know my son?"
"Do I, madam? Perhaps I do. Your son—the picture there?"
