“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. Near by stood Ah Cum and the young unknown, the former protesting gently, the latter insistent upon his demands. There is turmoil, shouts, cries, jostlings, milling congestions that suddenly break and flow in opposite directions. “He means nothing!” She whispered loudly. She had a feeling as though something had dropped from her eyes, as though she had just discovered herself for the first time—discovered herself as a sleepwalker might do, abruptly among dangers, hindrances, and perplexities, on the verge of a cardinal crisis.
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