“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. ’ He turned to the lodgekeeper behind him, whose shocked fear had given place to a direful frown. “Why do you hate me again, my love?” He seemed to brighten, feeding upon the intensity of her emotion. "But your dreadful projects will recoil on your own head. Mr. Wood," cried David, pouring out a glass of the spirit, and offering it to the carpenter, "that'll warm the cockles of your heart.
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