Two packets were committed to your charge, which you undertook to deliver,—one to another priest, Sir Rowland's chaplain, at Manchester, the other to Mr. Kicked out of there for something shady. If she had any idea at all, it was something she dimly recalled from her books: something celestially beautiful, with a happy ending. “Do you think it is fair of you to persecute me just now?” “It is not persecution, Anna,” he answered gently. Supposing that was it; at least, a solution to part of this amazing riddle? Supposing her father had made her assist him in the care of the derelicts solely to fill her with loathing and abhorrence for mankind? "Didn't you despise the men your father brought home—the beachcombers?" "No.
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