my first symphony!” Brown’s eyebrows rose skeptically. The road which wound by Westbourne Green, gave him a full view of the hill of Hampstead with its church, its crest of houses, and its villas peeping from out the trees. Nor, he would wager, had the heroic Monsieur Valade, who had rescued her from that life and brought her to England, taught her in that short time all that Gerald was certain she knew of men. To be near someone, even someone who made a pretense of friendliness, to hear voices, her own intermingling, would serve as a rehabilitating tonic. Oh! thank you—thank you! I'm so happy!" "Stop, Winny!" he answered, gravely; "I haven't promised yet. \" He rose and departed. "Sir Cecil is no more.
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