She meditated long and carefully upon her letter to her father before she wrote it, and gravely and deliberately again before she despatched it. “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. This man and he were alike, and about the same age. The poor boy, whose hands were pinioned behind him, looked very pale, but neither trembled, nor exhibited any other symptom of alarm. It tore her apart. If you can imagine it, I survived it. “That he should be in the same world with me!” said Ann Veronica, reduced to reading the list of good things the British Tea-Table Company had priced for its patrons.
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