" "And why not?" asked Kneebone, eagerly. ‘That is my mother. ‘Then it must certainly be Eugénie. 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. "Don't leave him, if you're at all fearful, my dear," replied Wood, receiving the little burthen with a laugh. Anyhow, there it is: YOU ARE NOT GOING THERE.
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