e terror, and she burst into a hearty fit of laughter.
"Charley," she shouted, "here's Eliza misbehaving again."
"I'll settle her," answered a masculine voice, and the young man dashed into the room. He had a brown horse-cloth in his hand, which he threw over the basket, making it fast with a piece of twine so as to effectually imprison its inmate, while his aunt ran across to reassure her visitors.
"It is only a rock snake," she explained.
"Oh, Bertha!" "Oh, Monica!" gasped the poor exhausted gentlewomen.
"She's hatching out some eggs. That is why we have the fire. Eliza always does better when she is warm. She is a sweet, gentle creature, but no doubt she thought that you had designs upon her eggs. I suppose that you did not touch any of them?"
"Oh, let us get away, Bertha!" cried Monica, with her thin, black-gloved hands thrown forwards in abhorrence.
"Not away, but into the next room," said Mrs. Westmacott, with the air of one whose word was law. "This way,
A blithe, airy, domestic romance -- completely unlike the adventures of Sherlock Holmes -- about the residents of three new, adjoining, suburban villas: A retired admiral and his wife and stockbroker son; a widowed doctor and his two pretty daughters; and a militant feminist and her stolid nephew. The lives of young and old neighbors intertwine in sometimes surprising ways.