‘Is there a resemblance?’ ‘This is Mary Remenham?’ ‘That is my late niece, yes. 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. Thankfully, he seemed pleased the moment he saw her face, which her mother had made her wash for weeks with the pulp of apples, orange water, and 21 extract of borage among other things. “Your affectionate “FATHER.
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