Away up on the hillside was the little country railway station. “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. ‘Not yet, madame. He sounds to me like a soldier of fortune. “Your name and address were upon an envelope found in the pocket of an Englishman who was brought here late last night suffering from serious injuries,” he said in a dry official tone. Anna rummaged about in her dressingcase, and finally drew out a letter. He's had a hard knock somewhere; and until he is strong enough to walk, we must keep his interest away from that thought. I was happy to oblige them, I had grown sick of the heat of the south and all the miserable sun. .
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