travelled back alone, heart-stricken and crushed in spirit, to her new
home under Mrs. Bolton's roof.




CHAPTER II.

ANN HOLLAND


Bolton Villa was not more than a stone's throw from the rectory and the
church. Sophy could hear the same shrieks of the martins wheeling about
the tower, and the same wintry chant of the robins amid the ivy creeping
up it. The familiar striking of the church clock and the chime of the
bells rang alike through the windows of both houses. But there was no
sound of her husband's voice and no merry shout of Charlie's, and the
difference was appalling to her. She could not endure it.

Mrs. Bolton was exceedingly proud of her villa. It had been bought
expressly to please her by the late archdeacon, and altered under her
own superintendence. Her tastes and wishes had been studied throughout.
The interior was something like a diary of her life. The broad oak
staircase was decorated with flags and banners from all the countries
she had travelled through; souvenirs labelled with the names of every
town she had visited, and the date of that event, lay scattered about.
The entrance-hall, darkened by the heavy banners on the staircase, was a
museum of curiosities collected by herself. The corners and niches were
filled with plaster casts of famous statuary, which were supposed to
look as fine as their marble originals in the gloom surrounding them.