Gently each time Ruth drew down the arms. 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. "Will that do?" he added, returning it. Lucy paced outside of the stone bricked room until her mother began to scream. A crutch, with a silver handle, stood by her side, proving the state of extreme debility to which she was reduced. "Who isn't it like?" he asked, endeavouring to gain possession of the drawing, which, af the sound of his footstep, she crushed between her fingers.
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