daughter,” the woman replied.
for ten or fifteen minutes mary sat on the stone beneath the tree in the orchard and thought of the attitude of the town toward herself and her father. “it should have drawn us together,” she told herself, and wondered if the approach of death would do what the cloud that had for years hung over them had not done. it did not at the moment seem to her cruel that the figure of death was soon to visit her father. in a way death had become for her and for the time a lovely and gracious figure intent upon good. the hand of death was to 