"I was in the right, you see, father," observed Thames, smiling; "Jack has done his task. Smith's melody had subsided. I say, I'll take the yarn over and read it to McClintock. 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. "You want him?" "Please!" said Ruth. It was a gray day in the spring of 1910.
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