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“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. And she had been doubting since that walk in the Zoological Gardens whether, indeed, he did simply care for her. "Woman, your wits are fled!" And so it seemed; for all the answer she could make was to murmur distractedly, "I can't find the key. The man was mad to marry me. I still have a cross stitch she made for me of a little fairy sitting on a daffodil. ” He scarcely saw her face again. Just as he was preparing to follow, the wherry containing Rowland and his men, which had drifted in their wake, was dashed against his boat. The contest, however, though desperate, was brief. “What made you marry him? What made you leave Paris without a word to any one? What made you and your sister exchange identities?” “There is one answer to all those questions, Nigel,” she said, with a nervous little shudder.

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