“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. She got up, drew up her blind, and stared out of window at a dawn-cold vision of chimneys for a time, and then went and sat on the edge of her bed. Manning loomed up ever and again into her world, full of a futile solicitude, and almost always declaring she was splendid, splendid, and wishing he could talk things out with her. And here he was first visited by that genius which, in his subsequent career, prompted him to so many bold and successful attempts. Sit down, I command you. Here your nephew will speedily be thrown. He was there concealed, waiting her return. “It couldn’t be. This time she was indeed beaten.
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