“MY DEAR FATHER,” she wrote,—“I have been thinking hard about everything since I was sent to this prison. ” Ogilvy reflected. She did not want to seem to shrink from conversation, but all sorts of odd questions were running through her mind. She saw his face change, how he regretted. “But was it wise to sing to-night?” “Why not? The man was nothing to me. " "I am here in Canton," she replied, simply. “I was surprised, I admit,” he said. He rang the doorbell, even though she had already cracked the door for him. For nearly thirty years he had lived here in contented loneliness; then youth had to come and fill him with discontent. Of course she had often heard sailors hammering out their ditties. But no matter how you phrase it, the end is the same. E.
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