A bumble-bee droned between visits to foxglove bells near by.

She loved bumble-bees.
They reminded her of a summer long ago when she sat, not on this seat--as a matter of fact it was in the old walled garden a quarter of a mile away--with a gallant young fellow's arms about her and her head on his shoulder.

A bumble-bee had droned round her while they kissed.
She could never hear a bumble-bee without thinking of it.

But the gallant young fellow had been killed in the Soudan in eighteen eighty-five, and Ursula Winwood's heart had been buried in his sandy grave.

That was the beginning and end of her sentimental history.