The strokes pealed slowly through the calm gray air of dawn, from the square tower of old Alyn Church. It was a morning of almost oppressive stillness, with mist-wreaths nestling in every hollow, and a hazy uncertainty about the horizon-line giving promise of a sultry day to come. And as the five deep-toned vibrations went rolling up the hill-side, Madge Hardwicke came out of her cottage on the summit of the cliff, and stood in the doorway to listen. Two little cottages were built there side by side; each with its tiny vegetable-ground behind, bounded by a tangled growth of trees and brushwood; and each with its tiny flower-garden in front, bounded by a broad belt of level grass which exten…
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