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. Poor Ruth: for a father, a madman; for a husband—a thief! Spurlock rocked his body slightly. It was an unspoken curfew in the Beck house on week nights. The stranger looked at him as if strongly disposed to chastise his impertinence. Yon must be mine to-night. “Yes, aren’t they?” said Ann Veronica, after a thoughtful pause. It came again.
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