“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 too sure of that,” she answered enigmatically. Those are all nice things, but it’s not what I want. “No, Lucy, it isn’t fine and I am sorry. Not a star could be discerned, but, in their stead, streaks of lurid radiance, whence proceeding it was impossible to determine, shot ever and anon athwart the dusky vault, and added to the ominous and threatening appearance of the night.
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