“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. " "Oh!" Ruth laughed softly. It hung from the centre of a stout pole, each end of which rested upon the calloused shoulder of a coolie; an ordinary Occidental chair with a foot-rest. "My mother!—my poor mother!" ejaculated Thames, falling on his knees, and bursting into tears. And here he was, but a hundred yards away, this wastrel who trailed his genius through the mud.
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