"You are no longer Thames Darrell," she said, casting her eyes rapidly over it; "but the Marquis de Chatillon. Immediately beneath her lay Willesden,—the most charming and secluded village in the neighbourhood of the metropolis—with its scattered farm-houses, its noble granges, and its old grey church-tower just peeping above a grove of rook-haunted trees. “I love you, Anna, and I want you for my wife. At the same time, I must say that I am most anxious to improve my acquaintance with her. That would be myself, or if she lived, Mary’s daughter.
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