And Mr. “I will not ask you to explain further. “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 may enjoy your pride, your arrogance—in a coffin. But as she got out of the train at Morningside Park Station she had a shock. Young, not much older than she was: she was twenty and he was possibly twenty-four. He read but little, and that chiefly healthy light fiction with chromatic titles, The Red Sword, The Black Helmet, The Purple Robe, also in order “to distract his mind. I’ll take over here.
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