“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. He singled out my poor husband from a crowd of other felons; and you know how right he was in that case, Sir. These desperadoes had been the most active in demolishing the coach, and now, being supported by the rabble, they audaciously approached the very portals of the ancient Hall. Spurlock halted in his tracks. Nevertheless Sydney, clumsily, but earnestly, had something to say about it. She picked up the hand cannon.
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