They flash to and fro, they thrill us with expectancy. He woke up with a start and the alarm clock read 4:46 P. Luck. “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. ‘I know what it means, numbskull! Didn’t spend years in the confounded country without picking up some of their infernal tongue. “Women should understand men’s affairs, perhaps,” said Miss Garvice, “but to mingle in them is just to sacrifice that power of influencing they can exercise now.
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