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. ’ ‘So you think she is an émigré?’ Lucilla put in before the incensed Roding could respond. What was to happen now? She turned to Roding quickly. “You blithering idiot!” he exclaimed. Let’s face it, she hates Missy’s guts. “Don’t!” she begged. " The worthy carpenter was now far more angry with himself than he had previously been with Mrs. Perhaps I ate something spoiled for breakfast.
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