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 swallowed hard. “I always get off here and lean over that rail for a bit. But I mustn't think of these things, or I shall grow mad. Shouting to his companion, even as they passed by where I hid myself, he called out that he thought to find you at the convent. "It is time!" "For what?" grumbled the latter, rubbing his eyes. I daresay that is one of the names of the nuns in your convent. ‘Comment? This is not a mirror!’ It was a portrait.
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