“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 pushed him gently on the chest. The two friends contrasted strikingly with each other. "When you are stronger we'll go up to the cutwater and watch them from there. They went on talking in the train—it seemed to her father a slight want of deference to him—and he listened and pretended to read the Times. Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year. “Will you come round to the hospital?” he asked. Believe me, the bitterness of it has almost departed, crushed out of me together with much of the weariness and sorrow I brought with me here by the nameless glory of these lonely months. ‘What a fate he finds for me. ” She said. He reached over and took her hand.
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