“Yes, aren’t they?” said Ann Veronica, after a thoughtful pause. The letter began: “MY DEAREST GIRL,—I cannot let you do this foolish thing—” She crumpled notes and letter together in her hand, and then with a passionate gesture flung them into the fire. It was fortunate that by this time Winifred had so far recovered, as to be able to afford her father the best and only solace that, under the circumstances, he could have received,—her personal attentions. “You shall,” she said. The hope that had been suddenly kindled in the youth's bosom was as suddenly extinguished.
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