“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. It hadn’t even been called Kentucky back then when the Shawnee still hunted deer over mossy hills and the smoke from their fires could still inspire terror. Very fascinating, though, trying to analyse the impulse. I'd a good many things to say to you, besides—but you've put them all out of my head. Courtlaw, who was sitting by the bedside, bent over him. Perhaps an hour passed before she laid aside the book.
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