On some insane score she fancied she had to state her case in verse. "To him I owe everything," continued the widow, "life itself—nay, more than life,—for without his assistance I should have perished, body and soul. The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it. But the letter, written in his son’s own hand, and addressed to the Mother Abbess of the Convent of the Sisters of Wisdom near Blaye in the district of Santonge, dated a little over five years previously, exercised a powerful effect upon him. I still have a cross stitch she made for me of a little fairy sitting on a daffodil. She had expected sympathetic admiration, but instead the whole Widgett family, except Teddy, expressed a common dismay. And will you look! His name neatly cut out from each title page.
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