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. ’ The snaking suspicion rolled through his mind again. "Do you mean to tell me he's come and gone in an hour? What the devil kind of a father is he?" Spurlock shook his head. The mother, Cathy Beck, was as patient and as charitable of an individual that Lucy had ever known, a big kindly Polish-American woman with the heart of an angel. When he awoke it was late in the day, and raining heavily. “May I ask whether you are staying with friends in town?” he inquired deferentially. They were both dressed in every respect alike.
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