Remember, in your story—look at it, scattered everywhere!—that line? We arrive at true happiness only through labyrinths of misery. The girl who had just left the room was as great a mystery to him now as on the afternoon when he had met her in Piccadilly and taken her to tea. "Ah!" exclaimed Wild, looking angrily towards his supposed attendant. There was no rush. 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. She spoke slowly.
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