The couple reappeared from behind the curtains, both visibly shaken. He might call her wife, but she refused to give him his wedding night. 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. To stumble upon the trail through the agency of a bottle of whisky! Drank queer; so his bottle had rendered him conspicuous. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. He was now almost driven to despair.
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