" "I'm sorry I can't indulge you," replied her master, a little piqued. “Yes. He had conveyed it to her, not verbally, but by means of a letter, which seemed to her a singularly ignoble method of prohibition. His lawful wife; but nothing more; beyond that she was only an idea, a trust. Under another name,—not my own hateful one,—I will strive to distinguish myself in some foreign service, and win myself a reputation, or perish honourably. ” She was silent, and in the gloom of the dimly lit apartment he could not see her face. He glanced up. 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.
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