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. "My old coco is disintegrating. "I understand," replied the stranger, unable to repress a smile. Immediately a feathered hat emerged, under which a familiar countenance was visible. Leonardo had told her it would happen, and warned her to make use of it. And no ill-chances. She listened, listened intently for several minutes.
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