“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. His face was very serious. You can if you will. ‘I knew I should find you still here. Slowly Prudence Sindlesham nodded her head, her eyes never leaving his face. To that, perhaps, a large part of its satisfyingness was due. But I must—I ought—” “I MUST talk about this. “My dear girl,” he said, in a tone of patient reasonableness, “you are a mere child.
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