"It only leads to the fencing crib," replied Wild. They've heard quite enough for my purpose," he muttered, as his orders were obeyed, and the domestics excluded. 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. “But what can one do?” asked Ann Veronica. As she went on, the story began to sound more and more like a recitation.
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