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“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. Do you think that I am utterly selfish?” She raised her eyebrows. “You are not boring me,” she said, “but I would rather talk of something else. Your Mom says to come downstairs for dessert. ‘There are no Remenhams left. " Ruth had read from page to page in "The Child's Garden of Verse," generally unfamiliar to the admirers of Stevenson. I WAS talking to him before I saw his name on the card beside the row of microscopes.
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