He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn. “Not home yet, miss,” the young man replied. Spurlock: 'tis Roundhead, sure enough. Gerald would certainly have demanded back his sword. It was easy to discover that he was a knave, but equally easy to perceive that he was a pleasant fellow; a combination of qualities by no means of rare occurrence. He kissed her cheek. The young man's imagination suddenly pictured the man as a rock, loosed from its ancient bed, crumbling as it fell. No more. .
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