“Will you come in, Sir John. What she said is true. "Whose grave is this?" he inquired of a man who was standing near it. He thought of her and himself, and no longer in that vein of incidental adventure in which he had begun. You are infatuated. Immediately beneath her lay Willesden,—the most charming and secluded village in the neighbourhood of the metropolis—with its scattered farm-houses, its noble granges, and its old grey church-tower just peeping above a grove of rook-haunted trees. It depresses one, you know. ’ The girl held out her hands.
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