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. Old saltwater was right. Lucy clasped her hands over her ears as it screamed. One hour later she had gone back to the mission—without the salt.
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