The birds were singing blithely amid the trees,—the lowing of the cows resounded from the yard,—a delicious perfume from the garden was wafted through the open window,—at a distance, the church-bells of Willesden were heard tolling for evening service. "What shall I say? Shall I tell you, or shall I leave you in the dark—as I must always leave her? What shall I say except that I am accursed of men? Yes; I have loved something—her mother. Bête, she told herself fiercely. Well, my dear, it is time you stopped wallowing in your sorrows like a common wretch. . ’ ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Miss Froxfield frostily. At this juncture, Sir Cecil and his followers appeared at the threshold. "I'll fetch it.
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