"Here, wife—hostess—fetch me that bottle from the second shelf in the corner cupboard. ” She said. “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. “I hope you realize,” he went on, in a lower and less assured tone, “that I am in earnest—very much in earnest. The man who staggers, whose face is flushed, whose attitude is either noisily friendly or truculent, has some chance; liquor bends him eventually. Of course, there'll be a few kinks to straighten out. He's as generous as he's frolicsome. The thousand voices which a few moments before had been so clamorous were now hushed. He has three days to live. “You promised faithfully to be there,” he said slowly. To receive him here afterwards would be most repugnant to me.
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