“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. "A capital instrument for my purpose," thought Jack, shouldering it, "and worth all the trouble I have had in procuring it. Spurling. Told you how it would be. "Granted it were as you say, Jack," said Wild;—"and I sha'n't take the trouble to contradict you—the estates would be yours hereafter. But, when I look upon his innocent face, and see how like he is to his father,—when I think of that father's shameful ending, and recollect how free from guilt he once was,—at such times, Mr. ‘Do not imagine that I will leave poor Jacques.
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