” “It might become one,” he answered. Before a word could be said, however, a slight noise was heard in the chimney, and Jack with his irons on descended from 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. For a time he and Miss Klegg contradicted one another. She stepped back quickly, and her hand knocked a wine-glass from the table to smash noisily on the floor. She was almost tempted to tell him, if only to see the cracks of surprise and incredulity break the immobility of his yellow countenance. To go to him, to console him! But she stirred not from her hiding place.
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