A florid-looking young woman rose up and accosted him eagerly. “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. “Who’ll mind the baby nar?” was one of the night’s inspirations, and very frequent. And put ‘em in little books for remembrance. I deemed it more prudent to send him to the Dark House than to bring him here, in case of any search after him by his adoptive father—the carpenter Wood. ‘You will keep yourself utterly quiet,’ he instructed, a growl in her ear as they headed for the door.
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