E. “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 carried herself well, whereas her brother slouched, and there was a certain aristocratic dignity about her that she had acquired through her long engagement to a curate of family, a scion of the Wiltshire Edmondshaws. Gosse cursed him finely, of course, but there was nothing he could do. She lost it in the Mint. Ruth made a little gesture, of infinite pity; and this was quickly seized upon by the slant-eyed Chinese girl. \"So did I.
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