Even her memories of he who had frequented her life for the longest period of years were worn and fading. “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. But there was no sign from her. He went on munching his water-chestnuts, and stared at the skyline. A feeling of inexplicable awe crept over the carpenter as the sounds died away. "Open my heart, Father of Mercy!" she murmured, in a humble tone, and with downcast looks, "and make me sensible of the error of my ways.
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