“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. ‘Oh, dearie me, I wish I’d never told you anything about it,’ lamented the nun, moving to the only chair the vestry possessed and sinking down into it. “I might go home, I don’t know. Her clock had stopped—stopped at the very hour on which she had quitted the Mint! She had not the heart to wind it up again. I’ve had the rarest luck and fallen on my feet. As soon as they had got out, the vehicle was drawn up at the back of a tree near the cage. Stop it. You know my fixed determination. ” 243 She felt a mixture of embarrassment, humiliation, and pride well up in her cheeks, flushing them.
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