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“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 glanced downwards at the impetuous torrent, which he could perceive shooting past him with lightning swiftness in the gloom. You poor man, what have you been doing to yourself?” “Nothing except travelling all night,” he answered. But he could only utter an inarticulate exclamation. "Troth, and so did you," returned the watchman; "but I couldn't belave it. He had no wish to go foraging in Spurlock's trunk. Overcome by his affliction, Mr. Mr.
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