The Vorsack house bore the stamp of Diane in every visible spot. “Look at our affair,” he went on, looking up at her. “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 wouldn't touch the stuff for all the pearls in India. As he anticipated, he was here comparatively screened from the fury of the wind; and when he gazed upon the roaring fall beneath him, visible through the darkness in a glistening sheet of foam, his heart overflowed with gratitude for his providential deliverance.
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