She sat drawn together in her chair in the corner of the box, at a loss what to say or do—afraid, curious, perplexed. We shall have him on his return. But if his frame was immature, his looks were not so. “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. Two children, who had been caught in the jam-closet: ingratiating smiles, back of which lay doubt and fear. ’ ‘Fancy my old pa thinking you was a French spy.
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