“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. ‘Don’t be silly. She was perfectly aware that the boy had gotten some sort of bug in his craw over her despite her sloppy, strange appearance. It’s only as if I’d begun to know you the day before yesterday or there-abouts. What was it in her heart or mind or soul that went out to this man? Music—was that it? Was he powerless to stir her without the gift? But hadn't he fascinated her by his talk, gentle and winning? Ah, but that had been after he had played for her. "Nothing more than to obtain a favourable answer to my suit," replied Kneebone. "Besides, you'll not be able to get in without me. Even given that he was hopelessly enamoured of the wench, a fact which was obvious to the meanest intelligence.
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