“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. The mighty concourse became for a moment still. She thought of the suitcase, the seventy-seven dollars for a Greyhound ticket that had expired. It warms me, and lights me, and fills my world with flowers. I am so much obliged to you for your projected benevolence. He was normal now, and the coat was only a coat. But I'm sure it's important. “What were you doing?” Her voice was a little hysterical.
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