“I wonder,” she said, “why one writes him sentences like that? It’ll have to go,” she decided, “I’ve written too many already. “MY DEAR DAUGHTER,” it ran,—“Here, on the verge of the season of forgiveness I hold out a last hand to you in the hope of a reconciliation. I swore I would bring your husband to the gallows,—would plunge you in such want, such distress, that you should have no alternative but the last frightful resource of misery,—and I also swore, that if you had a son he should share the same fate as his father. I know there’s a sort of right in your impatience at the slowness of Progress. The disgrace of the leaders of the late Tory administration had strengthened, rather than injured, their cause. "If that sickly brat lives to be a man," continued Jonathan, rising, "I'll hang him upon the same tree as his father.
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