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. She approached this field with her usual liveliness of apprehension. “Who are you—Annabel Pellissier or her ghost?” Anna laughed. ‘Certainly those are names of the most undistinguished, and I would scorn to have them. But that explains everything. “I don’t see there’s any getting away from the fact that you and I love each other,” he said, slowly.
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