It is perfectly intrusive of me, and I quite see that you must be sick to death of running into such an interfering busybody all the time. “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. But what he could do or might do she could not imagine. The rest was easy. He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror. ” She seemed unmoved, but she did not look at him.
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