When night fell, he crept into the town of Tottenham. On reaching the churchyard, he perceived the melancholy procession descending the hill. The air was sweet with the perfume of flowers, and the melody of murmuring insects, the blue sky was cloudless, the heat of the sun was tempered by the heather-scented west wind. “I was surprised, I admit,” he said. “That,” she answered, “is far easier to believe. Here he halted; and, looking upwards, read, at the foot of an immense sign-board, displaying a gaudily-painted angel with expanded pinions and an olive-branch, not the name he expected to find, but that of WILLIAM KNEEBONE, WOOLLENDRAPER. He would never be able to figure out that: all these miles from Cuba, and you could get a perfecto for thirteen cents. “She has gone down into the country.
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