“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. You shall tell me if I am wrong. ‘Parbleu, you are deaf perhaps? It is seen that you are very old, certainly. I told you that at the outset. While he was meditating flight in this way, and tossing about on the straw, he chanced upon an old broken and rusty fork. Perhaps if I had watched over her more closely, things would have been different. “Do you believe me now?” She asked. After an affectionate parting with Winifred, Thames was conducted by the carpenter to his sleeping apartment—a comfortable cosy chamber; such a one, in short, as can only be met with in the country, with its dimity-curtained bed, its sheets fragrant of lavender, its clean white furniture, and an atmosphere breathing of freshness. She approached Ruth with open arms; and something in the way the child came into that kindly embrace hurt the older woman to the point of tears. ” She said. She climbed slowly towards it, keeping close to the hedge side, fragrant with wild roses, and holding her skirts high above the dew-laden grass. That world of fine printed cambrics and escorted maidens, of delicate secondary meanings and refined allusiveness, presented itself to her imagination with the brightness of a lost paradise, as indeed for many women it is a lost paradise.
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