Charlotte's maid had the special care of this room. It was a sunshiny morning, and the warm spring air came in through the open window.

"Yes, leave it open," she said to the girl; "it seems as if spring had really come to-day."

"But it is winter still, madam, February is not yet over," replied the lady's maid. "Better let me shut it, Miss Harman, this is only a pet day."

"I will enjoy it then, Ward," answered Miss Harman. "And now leave me, for I am very busy."

The maid withdrew, and Charlotte seated herself by her writing table. She was engaged over a novel which Messrs. M——, of —— Street, had pronounced really good; they would purchase the copyright, and they wanted the MS. by a given date. How eager she had felt about this yesterday; how determined not to let anything interfere with its completion! But to-day, she took up her pen as usual, read over the last page she had written, then sat quiet, waiting for inspiration.

What was the matter with her? No thought came. As a rule thoughts flowed freely, proceeding fast from the brain to the pen, from the pen to the paper. But to-day? What ailed her to-day? The fact was, the most natural thing in the world had come to stop the flow of fiction. It was put out by a greater fire. The moon could shine brilliantly at night, but how sombre it looked beside the sun! The great sunshine of her own personal joy was flooding Charlotte's heart to-day, and the griefs and delights of the most attractive heroine in the world must sink into insignificance beside it. She sat waiting for about a quarter of an hour, then threw down her pen in disgust. She pulled out her watch. Hinton could not be with her before the afternoon. The morning was glorious. What had Ward, her maid, called the day?—"a pet day." Well, she would enjoy it; she would go out. She ran to her room, enveloped herself in some rich and becoming furs, and went into the street. She walked on a little way, rather undecided where to turn her steps. In an instant she could have found herself in Kensington Gardens or Hyde Park; but, just because they were so easy of access, they proved unattractive. She must wander farther afield. She beckoned to a passing hansom.

"I want to go somewhere where I shall have green grass and trees," she said to the cabby. "No, it must not be Hyde Park, somewhere farther off."

"There's the Regent's," replied the man. "I'll drive yer there and back wid pleasure, my lady."

"I will go to Regent's Park," said Charlotte. She made up her mind, as she was swiftly bowled along, that she would walk back. She was just in that condition of suppressed excitement, when a walk would be the most delightful safety-valve in the world.

In half an hour she found herself in Regent's Park and, having dismissed her cab, wandered about amongst the trees. The whole place was flooded with sunshine. There were no flowers visible; the season had been too bad, and the year was yet too young; but for all that, nature seemed to be awake and listening.

Charlotte walked about until she felt tired, then she sat down on one of the many seats to rest until it was time to return home. Children were running about everywhere. Charlotte loved children. Many an afternoon had she gone into Kensington Gardens for the mere and sole purpose of watching them. Here were children, too, as many as there, but of a different class. Not quite so aristocratic, not quite so exclusively belonging to the world of rank and fashion. The children in Regent's Park were certainly quite as well dressed; but there was just some little indescribable thing missing in them, which the little creatures, whom Charlotte Harman was most accustomed to notice, possessed.

She was commenting on this, in that vague and slight way one does when all their deepest thoughts are elsewhere, when a man came near and shared her seat. He was a tall man, very slight, very thin. Charlotte, just glancing at him took in this much also, that he was a clergyman. He sat down to rest, evidently doing so from great fatigue. Selfish in her happiness, Charlotte presently returned to her golden dreams. The children came on fast, group after group; some pale and thin, some rosy and healthy; a few scantily clothed, a few overladen with finery. They laughed and scampered past her. For, be the circumstances what they might, all the little hearts seemed full of mirth and sweet content. At last a very small nurse appeared, wheeling a perambulator, while two children ran by her side. These children were dressed neatly, but with no attempt at fashion. The baby in the shabby perambulator was very beautiful. The little group were walking past rather more slowly than most of the other groups, for the older boy and girl looked decidedly tired, when suddenly they all stopped; the servant girl opened her mouth until it remained fixed in the form of a round O; the baby raised its arms and crowed; the elder boy and girl uttered a glad shout and ran forward.

"Father, father, you here?" said the boy. "You here?" echoed the girl, and the whole cavalcade drew up in front of Charlotte and the thin clergyman. The boy in an instant was on his father's knee, and the girl, helping herself mightily by Charlotte's dress, had got on the bench.

The baby seeing this began to cry. The small nurse seemed incapable of action, and Charlotte herself had to come to the rescue. She lifted the little seven months old creature out of its carriage, and placed it in its father's arms.

He raised his eyes gratefully to her face and placed his arm round the baby.

"Oh! I'm falling," said the girl. "This seat is so slippy, may I sit on your knee?"

It seemed the most natural thing in the world for Charlotte to take this strange, shabbily dressed little girl into her embrace.

The child began to stroke down and admire her soft furs.

"Aren't they lovely?" she said. "Oh, Harold, look! Feel 'em, Harold; they're like pussies."

Harold, absorbed with his father, turned his full blue eyes round gravely and fixed them not on the furs, but on the strange lady's face.

"Father," he said in a slow, solemn tone, "may I kiss that pretty lady?"

"My dear boy, no, no. I am ashamed of you. Now run away, children; go on with your walk. Nurse, take baby."

The children were evidently accustomed to implicit obedience. They went without a word.

"But I will kiss Harold first," said Charlotte Harman, and she stooped down and pressed her lips to the soft round cheek.

"Thank you," said the clergyman. Again he looked into her face and smiled.

The smile on his careworn face reminded Charlotte of the smile on St. Stephen's face, when he was dying. It was unearthly, angelic; but it was also very fleeting. Presently he added in a grave tone,——

"You have evidently the great gift of attracting the heart of a little child. Pardon me if I add a hope that you may never lose it."

"Is that possible?" asked Charlotte.

"Yes; when you lose the child spirit, the power will go."

"Oh! then I hope it never will," she replied.

"It never will if you keep the Christ bright within you," he answered. Then he raised his hat to her, smiled again, and walked away.

He was a strange man, and Charlotte felt attracted as well as repelled. She was proud, and at another time and from other lips such words would have been received with disdain. But this queer, shadowy-looking clergyman looked like an unearthly visitant. She watched his rather weak footsteps, as he walked quietly away in the northern direction through the park. Then she got up and prepared to return home. But this little incident had sobered her. She was not unhappy; but she now felt very grave. The child spirit! She must keep it alive, and the Christ must dwell bright within her.

Charlotte's temperament was naturally religious. Her nature was so frank and noble that she could not but drink in the good as readily as the flower receives the dew; but she had come to this present fulness of her youthful vigor without one trial being sent to test the gold. She entered the house after her long walk to find Hinton waiting for her.



CHAPTER XII.

FOUR MONTHS HENCE.

Hinton had gone away the day before rather disturbed by Charlotte's manner. He had found her, for the first time since their betrothal, in trouble. Wishing to comfort, she had repelled him. He was a strong man, as strong in his own way as Charlotte was in hers, and this power of standing alone scarcely pleased him in her. His was the kind of nature which would be supposed to take for its other half one soft and clinging. Contrary to the established rule, however, he had won this proud and stately Charlotte. She thought him perfection: he was anything but that. But he had good points, there was nothing mean or base about him. There were no secrets hidden away in his life. His was an honorable and manly nature. But he had one little fault, running like a canker through the otherwise healthy fruit of his heart. While Charlotte was frank and open as the day, he was reserved; not only reserved, but suspicious. All the men who knew Hinton said what a capital lawyer he would make; he had all the qualities necessary to insure success in his profession. Above all things in the world secrets oppressed, irritated, and yet interested him. Once having heard of any little possible mystery, he could not rest until it was solved.

This had been his character from a boy. His own brothers and sisters had confided in him, not because they found him particularly sympathetic, or particularly clever, not because they loved him so much, but simply because they could not help themselves. John would have found out all the small childish matter without their aid; it was better, safer to take him into confidence. Then, to do him justice, he was true as steel; for though he must discover, he would scorn to betray.

On the white, untroubled sheet of Charlotte Harmon's heart no secrets yet had been written. Consequently, though she had been engaged for many months to John Hinton, she had never found out this peculiarity about him. Those qualities of openness and frankness, so impossible to his own nature, had attracted him most of all to this beautiful young woman. Never until yesterday had there been breath or thought of concealment about her. But then—then he had found her in trouble. Full of sympathy he had drawn near to comfort, and she had repelled him. She had heard of something which troubled her, which troubled her to such an extent that the very expression of her bright face had changed, and yet this something was to be a secret from him—true, only until the following day, but a whole twenty-four hours seemed like for ever to Hinton in his impatience. Before he could even expostulate with her she had run off, doubtless to confide her care to another. Perhaps the best way to express John Hinton's feelings would be to say that he was very cross as he returned to his chambers in Lincoln's Inn.

All that evening, through his dreams all that night, all the following morning as he tried to engage himself over his law books, he pondered on Charlotte's secret. Such pondering must in a nature like his excite apprehension. He arrived on the next day at the house in Prince's Gate with his mind full of gloomy forebodings. His face was so grave that it scarcely cleared up at the sight of the bright one raised to meet it. He was full of the secret of yesterday; Charlotte, in all the joy of the secret of to-day, had already forgotten it.

"Oh, I have had such a walk!" she exclaimed; "and a little bit of an adventure—a pretty adventure; and now I am starving. Come into the dining-room and have some lunch."

"You look very well," answered her lover, "and I left you so miserable yesterday!"

"Yesterday!" repeated Charlotte; she had forgotten yesterday. "Oh, yes, I had heard something very disagreeable: but when I looked into the matter, it turned out to be nothing."

"You will tell me all about it, dear?"

"Well, I don't know, John. I would of course if there was anything to tell; but do come and have some lunch, I cannot even mention something else much more important until I have had some lunch."

John Hinton frowned. Even that allusion to something much more important did not satisfy him. He must know this other thing. What! spend twenty-four hours of misery, and not learn what it was all about in the end! Charlotte's happiness, however, could not but prove infectious, and the two made merry over their meal, and not until they found themselves in Charlotte's own special sanctum did Hinton resume his grave manner. Then he began at once.

"Now, Charlotte, you will tell me why you looked so grave and scared yesterday. I have been miserable enough thinking of it ever since. I don't understand why you did not confide in me at once."

"Dear John," she said—she saw now that he had been really hurt—"I would not give you pain for worlds, my dearest. Yes, I was much perplexed, I was even very unhappy for the time. A horrid doubt had been put into my head, but it turned out nothing, nothing whatever. Let us forget it, dear John; I have something much more important to tell you."

"Yes, afterwards, but you will tell me this, even though it did turn out of no consequence."

"Please, John dear, I would rather not. I was assailed by a most unworthy suspicion. It turned out nothing, nothing at all. I would rather, seeing it was all a myth, you never knew of it."

"And I would rather know, Charlotte; the myth shall be dismissed from mind, too, but I would rather be in your full confidence."

"My full confidence?" she repeated; the expression pained her. She looked hard at Hinton; his words were very quietly spoken, but there was a cloud on his brow. "You shall certainly have my full confidence," she said after that brief pause; "which will you hear first, what gave me pain yesterday, or what brings me joy to-day?"

"What gave you pain yesterday."

There is no doubt she had hoped he would have made the latter choice, but seeing he did not she submitted at once, sitting, not as was her wont close to his side, but on a chair opposite. Hinton sat with his back to the light, but it fell full on Charlotte, and he could see every line of her innocent and noble face as she told her tale. Having got to tell it, she did so in few but simple words; Mrs. Home's story coming of a necessity first, her Uncle Jasper's explanation last. When the whole tale was told, she paused, then said,—

"You see there was nothing in it."

"I see," answered Hinton. This was his first remark. He had not interrupted the progress of the narrative by a single observation; then he added, "But I think, if even your father does not feel disposed to help her, that we, you and I, Charlotte, ought to do something for Mrs. Home."

"Oh, John dear, how you delight me! How good and noble you are! Yes, my heart aches for that poor mother; yes, we will help her. You and I, how very delightful it will be!"

Now she came close to her lover and kissed him, and he returned her embrace.

"You will never have a secret again from me, my darling?" he said.

"I never, never had one," she answered, for it was impossible for her to understand that this brief delay in her confidence could be considered a secret. "Now for my other news," she said.

"Now for your other news," he repeated.

"John, what is the thing you desire most in the world?"

Of course this young man being sincerely attached to this young woman, answered,—

"You, Charlotte."

"John, you always said you did not like Uncle Jasper, but see what a good turn he has done us—he has persuaded my father to allow us to marry at once."

"What, without my brief?"

"Yes, without your brief; my dear father told me this morning that we may fix the day whenever we like. He says he will stand in the way no longer. He is quite sure of that brief, we need not wait to be happy for it, we may fix our wedding-day, John, and you are to dine here this evening and have a talk with my father afterwards."

Hinton's face had grown red. He was a lover, and an attached one; but so diverse were the feelings stirred within him, that for the moment he felt more excited than elated.

"Your father is very good," he said, "he gives us leave to fix the day. Very well, that is your province, my Lottie; when shall it be?"

"This is the twentieth of February, our wedding-day shall be on the twentieth of June," she replied.

"That is four months hence," he said. In spite of himself there was a sound of relief in his tone. "Very well, Charlotte; yes, I will come and dine this evening. But now I am late for an appointment; we will have a long talk after dinner."



CHAPTER XIII.

HIS FIRST BRIEF.

Hinton, when he left Charlotte, went straight back to his chambers. He had no particular work to hurry him there; indeed, when he left that morning he had done so with the full intention of spending the entire afternoon with his betrothed. He was, as has been said, although a clever, yet certainly at present a briefless young barrister. Nevertheless, had twenty briefs awaited his immediate attention, he could not have more rapidly hurried back as he now did. When he entered his rooms he locked the outer door. Then he threw himself on a chair, drew the chair to his writing table, pushed his hands through his thick hair, and staring hard at a blank sheet of paper which lay before him began to think out a problem. His might scarcely have been called a passionate nature, but it was one capable of a very deep, very real attachment. This attachment had been formed for Charlotte Harman. Their engagement had already lasted nearly a year, and now with her own lips she had told him that it might end, that the end, the one happy end to all engagements, was in sight. With comfort, nay, with affluence, with the full consent of all her friends, they might become man and wife. John Hinton most undoubtedly loved this woman, and yet now as he reviewed the whole position the one pleasure he could deduct for his own reflection was in the fact that there was four months' reprieve. Charlotte had herself postponed their wedding-day for four months.

Hinton was a proud man. When, a year ago, he had gone to Mr. Harman and asked him for his daughter, Mr. Harman had responded with the very natural question, "What means have you to support her with?"

Hinton had answered that he had two hundred a year—and—his profession.

"What are you making in your profession?" asked the father.

"Not anything—yet," answered the young man.

There was a tone of defiance and withal of hope thrown into that "yet" which might have repelled some men, but pleased Mr. Harman. He paused to consider. He might have got a much, much better match for Charlotte from a temporal standpoint. Hinton was of no family in particular; he had no money worthy of the name. He was simply an honest fellow, fairly good-looking, and with the heart of a gentleman.

"You are doubtless aware," replied Mr. Harman, "that my daughter will inherit a very large fortune. She has been sought for in marriage before now, and by men who could give something to meet what she brings, both with regard to money and position."

"I have heard of Mr. S.'s proposal," answered Hinton. "I know he is rich, and the son of Lord ——; but that is nothing, for she does not love him."

"And you believe she loves you?"

"Most certainly she loves me."

In spite of himself Mr. Harman smiled, then after a little more thought, for he was much taken with Hinton, he came to terms.

He must not have Charlotte while he had nothing to support her with. Pooh! that two hundred a year was nothing to a girl brought up like his daughter. For Hinton's own sake it would not be good for him to live on his wife's money; but when he obtained his first brief then they might marry.

Hinton was profuse in thanks. He only made on his part one stipulation—that brief, which was to obtain for him his bride, was in no way to come to him through Mr. Harman's influence. He must win it by his own individual exertion.

Mr Harman smiled and grew a trifle red. In his business capacity he could have put twenty briefs in this young fellow's way, and in his inmost heart he had resolved to do so; but he liked him all the better for this one proviso, and promised readily enough.

Hinton had no business connections of his own. He had no influential personal friends, and his future father-in-law felt bound in honor to leave him altogether to his own resources. A year had nearly passed since the engagement, and the brief which was to win him Charlotte was as far away as ever. But now she told him that this one embargo to their happiness had been withdrawn. They might marry, and the brief would follow after. Hinton knew well what it all meant. The rich city merchant could then put work in his way. Work would quickly pour in to the man so closely connected with rich John Harman. Yes. As he sat by his table in his small shabbily furnished room, he knew that his fortune was made. He would obtain Charlotte and Charlotte's wealth; and if he but chose to use his golden opportunities, fame too might be his portion. He was a keen and ardent politician, and a seat in the House might easily follow all the other good things which seemed following in his track. Yes; but he was a proud man, and he did not like it. He had not the heart to tell Charlotte to-day, as she looked at him with all the love she had so freely given shining in her sweet and tender face, that he would not accept such terms, that the original bargain must yet abide in force. He could not say to this young woman when she came to him, "I do not want you." But none the less, as he now sat by his writing-table, was he resolved that unless his brief was won before the twentieth of June it should bring no wedding-day to him. This was why he rejoiced in the four months' reprieve. But this was by no means his only perplexity. Had it been, so stung to renewed action was his sense of pride and independence, that he would have gone at once to seek, perhaps to obtain work; but something else was lying like wormwood against his heart. That story of Mrs. Home's! That explanation of Jasper Harman's! The story was a queer one; the explanation, while satisfying the inexperienced girl, failed to meet the requirements of the acute lawyer. Hinton saw flaws in Jasper's narrative, where Charlotte saw none. The one great talent of his life, if it could be called a talent, was coming fiercely into play as he sat now and thought about it all. He had pre-eminently the gift of discovering secrets. He was rooting up many things from the deep grave of the hidden past now. That look of care on Mr. Harman's face, how often it had puzzled him! He had never liked Jasper; indefinite had been his antipathy hitherto, but it was taking definite form now. There was a secret in the past of that most respectable firm, and he, John Hinton, would give himself no rest until he had laid it bare. No wedding-day could come to him and Charlotte until his mind was at rest on this point. It was against his interest to ferret out this hidden thing, but that fact weighed as nothing with him. It would bring pain to the woman he loved; it might ruin her father; but the pain and the ruin would be inflicted unsparingly by his righteous young hand, which knew nothing yet of mercy but was all for justice, and justice untempered with mercy is a terrible weapon. This Hinton was yet to learn.



CHAPTER XIV.

LODGINGS IN KENTISH TOWN.

After a time, restless from the complexity of his musings, Hinton went out. He had promised to return to the Harmans for dinner, but their hour for dinner was eight o'clock, and it still wanted nearly three hours of that time. As Charlotte had done before that day, he found himself in the close neighborhood of Regent's Park. He would have gone into the park, but that he knew that the hour of closing the gates at this early period of the year must be close at hand; he walked, therefore, by the side of the park, rather aimlessly it is true, not greatly caring, provided he kept moving, in what direction his footsteps took him.

At last he found himself on the broad tram line which leads to the suburb of Kentish Town. It was by no means an interesting neighborhood. But Hinton, soon lost in his private and anxious musings, went on. At last he left the public thoroughfare and turned down a private road. There were no shops here, nor much traffic. He felt a sense of relief at leaving the roar and bustle behind him. This road on which he had now entered was flanked at each side by a small class of dwelling-houses, some shabby and dirty, some bright and neat; all, however, were poor-looking. It was quite dusk by this time, and the gas had been already lit. This fact, perhaps, was the reason which drew Hinton's much-preoccupied attention to a trivial circumstance.

In one of these small houses a young woman, who had previously lit the gas, stepped to the window and proceeded to paste a card to the pane. There was a gas lamp also directly underneath, and Hinton, raising his eyes, saw very distinctly, not only the little act, but also the words on the card. They were the very common words——

APARTMENTS TO LET

INQUIRE WITHIN.

Hinton suddenly drew up short on the pavement. He did not live in his chambers, and it occurred to him that here he would be within a walk of Regent's Park. In short, that these shabby-looking little lodgings might suit him for the next few uncertain months. As suddenly as he had stopped, and the thought had come to him, he ran up the steps and rang the bell. In a moment or two a little servant-maid opened the door. She was neither a clean nor a tidy-looking maid, and Hinton, fastidious on such matters, took in this fact at a glance. Nevertheless the desire to find for himself a habitation in this shabby little house did not leave him.

"I saw a card up in your window. You have rooms to let," he said to the little maid.

"Oh, yes, indeed, please, sir," answered the servant with a broad and delighted grin. "'Tis h'our drawing-rooms, please, sir; and ef you'll please jest come inter the 'all I'll run and tell missis."

Hinton did so; and in another moment the maid, returning, asked him to step this way.

This way led him into a dingy little parlor, and face to face with a young woman who, pale, self-possessed, and ladylike, rose to meet him. Hinton felt the color rising to his face at sight of her. He also experienced a curious and sudden constriction of his heart, and an overawed sense of some special Providence leading him here. For he had seen this young woman before. She was Charlotte Home. In his swift glance, however, he saw that she did not recognize him. His resolve was taken on the instant. However uncomfortable the rooms she had to offer, they should be his. His interest in this Mrs. Home became intensified to a degree that was painful. He knew that he was about to pursue a course which would be to his own detriment, but he felt it impossible now to turn aside. In a quiet voice, and utterly unconscious of this tumult in his breast, she asked him to be seated, and they began to discuss the accommodation she could offer.

Her back and front drawing-rooms would be vacant in a week. Yes, certainly; Mr. Hinton could see them. She rang the bell as she spoke, and the maid appearing, took Hinton up stairs. The rooms were even smaller and shabbier than he had believed possible. Nevertheless, when he came downstairs he found no fault with anything, and agreed to the terms asked, namely, one guinea a week. He noticed a tremor in the young, brave voice which asked for this remuneration, and he longed to make the one guinea two, but this was impossible. Before he left he had taken Mrs. Home's drawing-rooms for a month, and had arranged to come into possession of his new quarters that day week.

Looking at his watch when he left the house, he found that time had gone faster than he had any idea of. He had now barely an hour to jump into a cab, go to his present most comfortable lodgings, change his morning dress, and reach the Harmans in time for eight o'clock dinner. Little more than these sixty minutes elapsed from the time he left the shabby house in Kentish Town before he found himself in the luxurious abode of wealth, and every refinement, in Prince's Gate. He ran up to the drawing-room, to find Charlotte waiting for him alone.

"Uncle Jasper will dine with us, John," she said, "but my father is not well."

"Not well!" echoed Hinton. Her face only expressed slight concern, and his reflected it in a lesser degree.

"He is very tired," she said, "and he looks badly. But I hope there is not much the matter. He will see you after dinner. But he could not eat, so I have begged of him to lie down; he will be all right after a little rest."

Hinton made no further remark, and Uncle Jasper then coming in, and dinner being announced, they all went downstairs.

Uncle Jasper and Charlotte were merry enough, but Hinton could not get over a sense of depression, which not even the presence of the woman he loved could disperse. He was not sorry when the message came for him to go to Mr. Harman. Charlotte smiled as he rose.

"You will find me in the drawing-room whenever you like to come there," she said to him.

He left the room suppressing the sigh. Charlotte, however, did not hear or notice it. Still, with that light of love and happiness crowning her bright face, she turned to the old Australian uncle.

"I will pour you out your next glass of port, and stay with you for a few moments, for I have something to tell you."

"What is that, my dear?" asked the old man.

"Something you have had to do with, dear old uncle. My wedding-day is fixed."

Uncle Jasper chuckled.

"Ah! my dear," he said, "there's nothing like having the day clear in one's head. And when is it to be, my pretty lass?"

"The twentieth of June, Uncle Jasper. Just four months from to-day."

"Four months off!" repeated Uncle Jasper. "Well, I don't call that very close at hand. When I spoke to your father last night—for you know I did speak to him, Charlotte—he seemed quite inclined to put no obstacle in the way of your speedy marriage."

"Nor did he, Uncle Jasper. You don't understand. He said we might marry at once if we liked. It was I who said the twentieth of June."

"You, child!—and—and did Hinton, knowing your father had withdrawn all opposition, did Hinton allow you to put off his happiness for four whole months?"

"It was my own choice," said Charlotte. "Four months do not seem to me too long to prepare."

"They would seem a very long time to me if I were the man who was to marry you, my dear."

Charlotte looked grave at this. Her uncle seemed to impute blame to her lover. Being absolutely certain of his devotion, she scorned to defend it. She rose from the table.

"You will find me in the drawing-room, Uncle Jasper."

"One word, Charlotte, before you go," said her uncle. "No, child, I am not going to the drawing-room. You two lovers may have it to yourselves. But—but—you remember our talk of last night?"

"Yes," answered Charlotte, pausing, and coming back a little way into the room. "Did you say anything to my father? Will he help Mrs. Home?"

"I have no doubt he will, my dear. Your father and I will both do something. He is a very just man, is your father. He was a good deal upset by this reference to his early days, and to his quarrel with his own father. I believe, between you and me, that it was that which made him ill this evening. But, Charlotte, you leave Mrs. Home to us. I will mention her case again when your father is more fit to bear the subject. What I wanted to say now, my dear, is this, that I think it would best please the dear old man if—if you told nothing of this strange tale, not even to Hinton, my dear."

"Why, Uncle Jasper?"

"Why, my dear child? The reason seems to me obvious enough. It is a story of the past. It relates to an old and painful quarrel. It is all over years ago. And then you could not tell one side of the tale without the other. Mrs. Home, poor thing, not personally knowing your father as one of the best and noblest of men, imputes very grave blame to him. Don't you think such a tale, so false, so wrong, had better be buried in oblivion?"

"Mrs. Home was most unjust in her ignorance," repeated Charlotte. "But, uncle, you are too late in your warning, for I told John the whole story already to-day."

Not a muscle of Uncle Jasper's face changed.

"Well, child, I should have said that to you last night. After all, it is natural. Hinton won't let it go farther, and no harm is done."

"Certainly, John does not speak of my most sacred things," answered Charlotte proudly.

"No, no, of course he doesn't. I am sorry you told him; but as you say, he is one with yourself. No harm is done. No, thank you, my dear, no more wine now. I am going off to my club."



CHAPTER XV.

MR. HARMAN'S CONFIDENCE.

All through dinner, Hinton had felt that strange sense of depression stealing upon him. He was a man capable of putting a very great restraint upon his feelings, and he so behaved during the long and weary meal as to rouse no suspicions, either in Charlotte's breast or in the far sharper one of the Australian uncle. But, nevertheless, so distressing was the growing sense of coming calamity, that he felt the gay laugh of his betrothed almost distressing, and was truly relieved when he had to change it for the gravity of her father. As he went from the dining-room to Mr. Harman's study, he reflected with pleasure that his future father-in-law was always grave, that never in all the months of their rather frequent intercourse had he seen him even once indulge in what could be called real gayety of heart. Though this fact rather coupled with his own suspicions, still he felt a momentary relief in having to deal to-night with one who treated life from its sombre standpoint.

He entered the comfortable study. Mr. Harman was sunk down in an armchair, a cup of untasted coffee stood by his side; the moment he heard Hinton's step, however, he rose and going forward, took the young man's hand and wrung it warmly.

The room was lit by candles, but there were plenty of them, and Hinton almost started when he perceived how ill the old man looked.

"Charlotte has told you what I want you for to-night, eh, Hinton?" said Mr. Harman.

"Yes; Charlotte has told me," answered John Hinton. Then he sat down opposite his future father-in-law, who had resumed his armchair by the fire. Standing up, Mr. Harman looked ill, but sunk into his chair, with his bent, white head, and drawn, anxious face, and hands worn to emaciation, he looked twenty times worse. There seemed nearly a lifetime between him and that blithe-looking Jasper, whom Hinton had left with Charlotte in the dining-room. Mr. Harman, sitting by his fire, with firelight and candlelight shining full upon him, looked a very old man indeed.

"I am sorry to see you so unwell, sir. You certainly don't look at all the thing," began Hinton.

"I am not well—not at all well. I don't want Charlotte to know. But there need be no disguises between you and me; of course I show it; but we will come to that presently. First, about your own affairs. Lottie has told you what I want you for to-night?"

"She has, Mr. Harman. She says that you have been good and generous enough to say you will take away the one slight embargo you made to our marriage—that we may become man and wife before I bring you news of that brief."

"Yes, Hinton: that is what I said to her this morning: I repeat the same to you to-night. You may fix your wedding-day when you like—I dare say you have fixed it."

"Charlotte has named the twentieth of next June, sir; but——"

"The twentieth of June! that is four months away. I did not want her to put it off as far as that. However, women, even the most sensible, have such an idea of the time it takes to get a trousseau. The twentieth of June! You can make it sooner, can't you?"

"Four months is not such a long time, sir. We have a house to get, and furniture to buy. Four months will be necessary to make these arrangements."

"No, they won't; for you have no such arrangements to make. You are to come and live here when you marry. This will be your house when you marry, and I shall be your guest. I can give you Charlotte Hinton; but I cannot do without her myself."

"But this house means a very, very large income, Mr. Harman. Is it prudent that we should begin like this? For my part I should much rather do on less."

"You may sell the house if you fancy, and take a smaller one; or go more into the country. I only make one proviso—that while I live, I live with my only daughter."

"And with your son, too, Mr. Harman," said Hinton, just letting his hand touch for an instant the wrinkled hand which lay on Mr. Harman's knee.

The old man smiled one of those queer, sad smiles which Hinton had often in vain tried to fathom. Responding to the touch of the vigorous young hand, he said—

"I have always liked you, Hinton. I believe, in giving you my dear child, I give her to one who will make her happy."

"Happy! yes, I shall certainly try to make her happy," answered Hinton, with a sparkle in his eyes.

"And that is the main thing; better than wealth, or position, or anything else on God's earth. Happiness comes with goodness, you know, my dear fellow; no bad man was ever happy. If you and Charlotte get this precious thing into your lives you must both be good. Don't let the evil touch you ever so slightly. If you do, happiness flies."

"I quite believe you," answered Hinton.

"Well, about money matters. I am, as you know, very rich. I shall settle plenty of means upon my daughter; but it will be better for you to enter into all these matters with my solicitor. When can you meet him?"

"Whenever convenient to you and to him, sir."

"I will arrange it for you, and let you know."

"Mr. Harman, may I say a word for myself?" suddenly asked the young man.

"Most certainly. Have I been so garrulous as to keep you from speaking?"

"Not at all, sir; you have been more than generous. You have been showing me the rose-color from your point of view. Now it is not all rose-color."

"I was coming to that; it is by no means all rose-color. Well, say your say first."

"You are a very rich man, and you are giving me your daughter; so endowing her, that any man in the world would say I had drawn a prize in money, if in nothing else."

Mr. Harman smiled.

"I fear you must bear that," he said. "I do not see that you can support Charlotte without some assistance from me."

"I certainly could not do so. I have exactly two hundred a year, and that, as you were pleased to observed before, would be, to one brought up as Charlotte has been, little short of beggary."

"To Charlotte it certainly would be almost beggary."

"Mr. Harman, I have some pride in me. I am a barrister by profession. Some barristers get high in their profession."

"Undoubtedly some do."

"Those who are brilliant do," continued Hinton. "I have abilities, whether they are brilliant or not, time will show. Mr. Harman, I should like to bring you news of that brief before we are married."

"I can throw you in the way of getting plenty of briefs when you are my son-in-law. I promise you, you will no longer be a barrister with nothing to do."

"Yes, sir; but I want this before my marriage."

"My influence can give it to you before."

"But that was against our agreement, Mr. Harman. I want to find that brief which is to do so much for me without your help."

"Very well. Find it before the twentieth of June."

After this the two men were silent for several moments. John Hinton, though in no measure comforted, felt it impossible to say more just then, and Mr. Harman, with a face full of care, kept gazing into the fire. John Hinton might have watched that face with interest, had he not been otherwise occupied. After this short silence Mr. Harman spoke again.

"You think me very unselfish in all this; perhaps even my conduct surprises you."

"I confess it rather does," answered Hinton.

"Will you oblige me by saying how?"

"For one thing, you give so much and expect so little."

"Ay, so it appears at first sight; but I told you it was not all rose-color; I am coming to that part. Your pride has been roused—I can soothe it."

"I love Charlotte too much to feel any pride in the matter," replied Hinton, with some heat.

"I don't doubt your affection, my good fellow; and I put against it an equal amount on Charlotte's part; also a noble and beautiful woman, and plenty of money, with money's attendant mercies. I fear even your affection is outweighed in that balance."

"Nothing can outweigh affection," replied Hinton boldly.

Mr. Harman smiled, and this time stretching out his own hand he touched the young man's.

"You are right, my dear boy; and because I am so well aware of this, I give my one girl to a man who is a gentleman, and who loves her. I ask for nothing else in Charlotte's husband, but I am anxious for you to be her husband at once."

"And that is what puzzles me," said Hinton: "you have a sudden reason for this hurry. We are both young; we can wait; there is no hardship in waiting."

"There would be a hardship to me in your waiting longer now. You are quite right in saying I have a sudden reason; this time last night I had no special thought of hurrying on Charlotte's marriage. Her uncle proposed it; I considered his reasoning good—so good, that I gave Charlotte permission this morning to fix with you the time for the wedding. But even then delay would have troubled me but little; now it does; now even these four short months trouble me sorely."

"Why?" asked Hinton.

"Why? You mentioned my health, and observed that I looked ill; I said I would come to that presently. I am ill; I look very ill. I have seen physicians. To-day I went to see Sir George Anderson; he told me, without any preamble, the truth. My dear fellow, I want you to be my child's protector in a time of trouble, for I am a dying man."

Hinton had never come face to face with death in his life before. He started forward now and clasped his hands.

"Dying!" he repeated, in a tone of unbelief and consternation.

"Yes; you don't see it, for I am going about. I shall go about much as usual to the very last. Your idea of dying men is that they stay in bed and get weak, and have a living death long before the last great mercy comes. That will not be my case. I shall be as you see me now to the very last moment; then some day, or perhaps some night, you will come into this room, or into another room, it does not a bit matter where, and find me dead."

"And must this come soon?" repeated Hinton.

"It may not come for some months; it may stay away for a year; but again it may come to-night or to-morrow."

"Good God!" repeated Hinton.

"Yes, Mr. Hinton, you are right, in the contemplation of such a solemn and terrible event, to mention the name of your Creator. He is a good God, but His very goodness makes Him terrible. He is a God who will see justice done; who will by no means cleanse the guilty. I am going into His presence—a sinful old man. Well, I bow to His decree. But enough of this; you see my reasons for wishing for an early marriage for my child."

"Mr. Harman, I am deeply, deeply pained and shocked. May I know the nature of your malady?"

"It is unnecessary to discuss it, and does no good; suffice it to know that I carry a disease within me which by its very nature must end both soon and suddenly; also that there is no cure for the disease."

"Are you telling me all this as a secret?"

"As a most solemn and sacred secret. My brother suspects something of it, but no one, no one in all the world knows the full and solemn truth but yourself."

"Then Charlotte is not to be told?"

"Charlotte! Charlotte! It is for her sake I have confided to you all this, that you may guard her from such a knowledge."

John Hinton was silent for a moment or two; if he disliked Charlotte having a secret from him much more did he protest against the knowledge which now was forced upon him being kept from her. He saw that Mr. Harman was firmly set on keeping his child in the dark; he disapproved, but he hardly dared, so much did he fear to agitate the old man, to make any vigorous stand against a decree which seemed to him both cruel and unjust. He must say something, however, so he began gently—

"I will respect your most sacred confidence, Mr. Harman; without your leave no word from me shall convey this knowledge to Charlotte; but pardon me if I say a word. You know your own child very well, but I also know Charlotte; she has lived, for all her talent and her five and twenty years, the sheltered life of a child hitherto—but that is nothing; she is a noble woman, she has a noble woman's heart; in trouble, such a nature as hers could rise and prove itself great. Don't you suppose, when by and by the end really comes, she will blame me, and even perhaps, you, sir, for keeping this knowledge from her."

"She will never blame her old father. She will see, bless her, that I did it in love; you will tell her that, be sure you tell her that, when the time comes; please God, you will be her husband then, and you will have the right to comfort her."

"I hope to have the right to comfort her, I hope to be her husband; still, I think you are mistaken, though I can urge the matter no further."

"No, for you cannot see it with my eyes; that child and I have lived the most unbroken life of peace and happiness together; neither storm nor cloud has visited us in one another. The shadow of death must not embitter our last few months; she must be my bright girl to the very last. Some day, if you and she ever have a daughter, you will understand my feelings—at least in part you will understand it."

"I cannot understand it now, but I can at least respect it," answered the young man.



CHAPTER XVI.

"VENGEANCE IS MINE."

When Hinton at last left him, Mr. Harman sat on for a long time by his study fire. The fire burnt low but he did not replenish it, neither did he touch the cold coffee which still remained on his table. After an hour or so of musings, during which the old face seemed each moment to grow more sad and careworn, he stretched out his hand to ring his bell.

Almost instantly was the summons answered—a tall footman stood before him.

"Dennis, has Mr. Jasper left?"

"Yes, sir. He said he was going to his club. I can have him fetched, sir."

"Do not do so. After Mr. Hinton leaves, ask Miss Harman to come here."

The footman answered softly in the affirmative and withdrew, and Mr. Harman still sat on alone. He had enough to think about. For the first time to-day death had come and stared him in the face; very close indeed his own death was looking at him. He was a brave man, but the sight of the cold, grim thing, brought so close, so inevitably near, was scarcely to be endured with equanimity. After a time, rising from his seat, he went to a bookcase and took down, not a treatise on medicine or philosophy, but an old Bible.

"Dying men are said to find comfort here," he said faintly to himself. He put one of the candles on the table and opened the book. It was an old Bible, but John Harman was not very well acquainted with its contents.

"They tell me there is much comfort here," he said to himself. He turned the old and yellow leaves.

"Vengeance is mine. I will repay." These were the words on which his eyes fell.

Comfort! He closed the book with a groan and returned it to the bookshelf. But in returning it he chose the highest shelf of all and pushed it far back and well out of sight.

He had scarcely done so before a light quick step was heard at the door, and Charlotte, her eyes and cheeks both bright, entered.

"My dearest, my darling," he said. He came to meet her, and folded her in his arms. He was a dying man, and a sin-laden one, but not the less sweet was that young embrace, that smooth cheek, those bright, happy eyes.

"You are better, father; you look better," said his daughter.

"I have been rather weak and low all the evening, Lottie; but I am much better for seeing you. Come here and sit at my feet, my dear love."

"I am very happy this evening," said Charlotte, seating herself on her father's footstool, and laying her hand on his knee.

"I can guess the reason, my child; your wedding-day is fixed."

"This morning, father, I said it should be the twentieth of June; John seemed quite satisfied, and four months were not a bit too long for our preparations; but to-night he has changed his mind; he wants our wedding to be in April. I have not given in—not yet. Two months seem so short."

"You will have plenty of time to prepare in two months, dear; and April is a nice time of year. If I were you, I would not oppose Hinton."

Charlotte smiled. She knew in her heart of hearts she should not oppose him. But being a true woman, she laid hold of a futile excuse.

"My book will not be finished. I like to do well what I do at all."

Her father was very proud of this coming book; but now, patting her hand, he said softly,—

"The book can keep. Put it out of your head for the present; you can get it done later."

"Then I shall leave you two months sooner, father; does that not weigh with you at all?"

"You are only going for your honeymoon, darling; and the sooner you go the sooner you will return."

"Vanquished on all points," said Charlotte, smiling radiantly, and then she sat still, looking into the fire.

Long, long afterwards, through much of sorrow—nay, even of tribulation—did her thoughts wander back to that golden evening of her life.

"You remind me of my own mother to-night," said her father presently.

Charlotte and her father had many times spoken of this dead mother. Now she said softly,—

"I want, I pray, I long to make as good a wife as you tell me she did."

"With praying, longing, and striving, it will come Charlotte. That was how she succeeded."

"And there is another thing," continued Charlotte, suddenly changing her position and raising her bright eyes to her old father's face. "You had a good wife and I had a good mother. If ever I die, as my own mother died, and leave behind me a little child, as she did, I pray that my John may be as good a father to it as you have been to me."

But in answer to this little burst of daughterly love, a strange thing happened. Mr. Harman grew very white, so white that he gasped for breath.

"Water, a little water," he said, feebly; and when Charlotte had brought it to him and he raised it to his lips, and the color and power to breathe had come back again, he said slowly and with great pain,—

"Never, never pray that your husband may be like me, Charlotte. To be worthy of you at all, he must be a much better and a very different man."



CHAPTER XVII.

HAPPINESS NOT JUSTICE.

Hinton left Mr. Harman's house in a very perplexed frame of mind. It seemed to him that in that one short day as much had happened to him as in all the course of his previous life, but the very force of the thoughts, the emotions, the hopes, the fears, which had visited him, made him, strong, young and vigorous as he was, so utterly weary, that when he reached his rooms he felt that he must let tired-out nature have its way—he threw himself on his bed and slept the sleep of the young and healthy until the morning.

It was February weather, February unusually mild and genial, and the pet day of yesterday was followed by another as soft and sweet and mild. When Hinton awoke from his refreshing slumbers, the day was so well and thoroughly risen that a gleam of sunshine lay across his bed. He started up to discover a corresponding glow in his heart. What was causing this glow? In a moment he remembered, and the gleam of heart sunshine grew brighter with the knowledge. The fact was, happiness was standing by the young man's side, holding out two radiant hands, and saying, "Take me, take me to your heart of hearts, for I have come to dwell with you." Hinton rose, dressed hastily, and went into his sitting-room. All the gloom which had so oppressed him yesterday had vanished. He could not resist the outward sunshine, nor the heart-glow which had come to him. He stepped lightly, and whistled some gay airs. He ate his breakfast with appetite, then threw himself into an easy-chair which stood near the window; he need not go to his chambers for at least an hour, he might give himself this time to think.

Again happiness stepped up close and showed her beautiful face. Should he take her; should he receive the rare and lovely thing and shut out that stern sense of justice, of relieving the oppressed, of seeing the wronged righted, which had been as his sheet-anchor yesterday, which had been more or less the sheet-anchor of his life. Here was his position. He was engaged to marry Charlotte Harman; he loved her with his whole heart; she loved him with her whole heart; she was a beautiful woman, a noble woman, a wealthy woman. With her as his wife, love, riches, power might all be his. What more could the warm, warm feelings of youth desire? what more could the ambitions of youth aspire to? Yesterday, it is true, he had felt some rising of that noble pride which scorns to receive so much and give so little. He had formed a wild, almost passionate determination to obtain his brief before he obtained his bride, but Mr. Harman had soothed that pride to sleep. There was indeed a grave and sad reason why this beautiful and innocent woman whom he had won should receive all the full comfort his love and protection could give her as quickly as possible. Her father was dying, and she must not know of his approaching death. Her father wished to see her Hinton's wife as soon as possible. Hinton felt that this was reasonable, this was fair; for the sake of no pride, true or false, no hoped-for brief, could he any longer put off their wedding. Nay, far from this. Last night he had urged its being completed two months sooner than Charlotte herself had proposed. He saw by the brightness in Charlotte's eyes that, though she did not at once agree to this, her love for him was such that she would marry him in a week if he so willed it. He rejoiced in these symptoms of her great love, and the rejoicings of last night had risen in a fuller tide this morning. Yes, it was the rule of life, the one everlasting law, the old must suffer and die, the young must live and rejoice. Yes; Hinton felt very deep sympathy for Mr. Harman last night, but this morning, his happiness making him more self-absorbed than really selfish, he knew that the old man's dying and suffering state could not take one iota from his present delight.

What then perplexed him? What made him stand aloof from the radiant guest, Happiness, for a brief half hour? That story of Charlotte's; it would come back to him; he wished now he had never heard it. For having heard he could not forget: he could not exorcise this grim Thing which stood side by side with Happiness in his sunny room. The fact was, his acute mind took in the true bearings of the case far more clearly than Charlotte had done. He felt sure that Mrs. Home had been wronged. He felt equally sure that, if he looked into the case, it lay in his power to right her. Over and over he saw her pale, sad face, and he hoped it was not going to haunt him. The tale in his mind lay all in Mrs. Home's favor, all against John and Jasper Harman. Was it likely that their wealthy father would do anything so monstrously unjust as to leave all his money to his two eldest sons with whom he had previously quarrelled, and nothing, nothing at all to his young wife and infant daughter? It would be a meaningless piece of injustice, unlike all that he had gleaned of the previous character of the old man. As to John and Jasper, and their conduct in the affair, that too was difficult to fathom. Jasper had spent the greater portion of his life in Australia. Of his character Hinton knew little; that little he felt was repugnant to him. But John Harman—no man in the City bore a higher character for uprightness, for integrity, for honor. John Harman was respected and loved by all who knew him.

Yes, yes: Hinton felt that all this was possible, but also he knew that never in their close intercourse had he been able to fathom John Harman. A shadow rested over the wealthy and prosperous merchant. Never until now had Hinton even approached the cause; but now, now it seemed to him that he was grappling with the impenetrable mystery, that face to face he was looking at the long and successfully hidden sin. Strong man as he was, he trembled as this fear came over him. Whatever the cause, whatever the sudden and swift temptation, he felt an ever-growing conviction that long ago John and Jasper Harman had robbed the widow and fatherless. Feeling this, being almost sure of this, how then should he act? He knew very well what he could do. He could go to Somerset House and see the will of old Mr. Harman. It was very unlikely that a forged will had been attempted. It was, he felt sure, far, far more probable that the real will was left untampered with, that the deed of injustice had been done in the hope that no one who knew anything about such matters would ever inquire into it.

Hinton could go that very day and set his mind at rest. Why then did he hesitate? Ah! he knew but too well. Never and nearer came that shining form of Happiness. If he did this thing, and found his suspicions correct, as he feared much he should, if he then acted upon this knowledge and gave Mrs. Home her own again, happiness would fly from him, it might be for ever. To give Mrs. Home her rights he must cruelly expose a dying old man. Such a shock, coming now, would most probably kill John Harman. After bringing her father to such shame and dishonor, would Charlotte ever consent to be his wife? would she not indeed in very horror fly from his presence? What was Mrs. Home to him, that he should ruin his whole life for her sake, that he should give up wife, wealth, and fame? Nothing—a complete stranger. Why should he, for her sake, pain and make miserable those he loved, above all break the heart of the woman who was more precious to him than all the rest of the world? He felt he could not do this thing. He must take that bright winged happiness and let justice have her day when she could. Some other hand must inflict the blow, it could not be his hand. He was sorry now that he had taken Mrs. Home's lodgings. But after all what did it signify? He had taken them for a month, he could go there for that short period. His quickly approaching marriage would make it necessary for him to leave very soon after, and he would try amongst his many friends to find her a more permanent tenant, for though he had now quite made up his mind to let matters alone, his heart ached for this woman. Yes, he would, if possible, help her in little ways, though it would be impossible for his hand to be the one to give her her own again. Having come to this determination he went out.



CHAPTER XVIII.

"SUGAR AND SPICE AND ALL THAT'S NICE."

Perhaps for one day Charlotte Harman was selfish in her happiness. But when she awoke on the morning after her interview with her father, her finely balanced nature had quite recovered its equilibrium. She was a woman whom circumstances could make very noble; all her leanings were towards the good, she had hitherto been unassailed by temptation, untouched by care. All her life the beautiful and bright things of this world had been showered at her feet. She had the friends whom rich, amiable, and handsome girls usually make. She had the devotion of a most loving father. John Hinton met her and loved her. She responded to his love with her full heart. Another father might have objected to her giving herself to this man, who in the fashionable world's opinion was nothing. But Harman only insisted on a slight delay to their marriage, none whatever to their engagement, and now, after scarcely a year of waiting, the embargo was withdrawn, their wedding-day was fixed, was close at hand. The twentieth of April (Charlotte knew she should not oppose the twentieth of April) was not quite two months away. Very light was her heart when she awoke to this happy fact. Happiness, too, was standing by her bedside, and she made no scruple to press the radiant creature to her heart of hearts. But Charlotte's was too fine a nature to be spoiled by prosperity. Independent of her wealth, she must always have been a favorite. Her heart was frank and generous; she was thoughtful for others, she was most truly unselfish. Charlotte was a favorite with the servants; her maid worshipped her. She was a just creature, and had read too much on social reform to give away indiscriminately and without thought; but where her sense of justice was really satisfied, she could give with a royal hand, and there were many poor whom Ward, her maid, knew, who, rising up, called Miss Harman blessed.

Charlotte had taken a great interest in Mrs. Home. Her face attracted, her manner won, before ever her story touched the heart of this young woman. The greatest pain Charlotte had ever gone through in her life had followed the recital of Mrs. Home's tale, a terrible foreboding the awful shadow which points to wrong done, to sin committed by her best and dearest, had come near and touched her. Uncle Jasper, with his clever and experienced hand, had driven that shadow away, and in her first feeling of intense thankfulness and relief, she had almost disliked the woman who had come to her with so cruel a tale. All yesterday, in the midst of her own happiness, she had endeavored to shut Mrs. Home from her thoughts; but this morning, more calm herself, the remembrance of the poor, pale, and struggling mother rose up again fresh and vivid within her heart. It is true Mrs. Home believed a lie, a cruel and dreadful lie; but none the less for this was she to be pitied, none the less for this must she be helped. Mrs. Home was Charlotte's near relation, she could not suffer her to want. As she lay in bed, she reflected with great thankfulness that John Hinton had said, on hearing the tale, how manifestly it would be his and her duty to help this poor mother. Yes, by and by they would give her enough to raise her above all want, but Charlotte felt she could not wait for that distant time. She must succor Mrs. Home at once. Her father had said last night that, if she married in two months, there would be no time for her to finish her book. He was right; she must give up the book; she would devote this morning to Mrs. Home.

She rose with her determination formed and went downstairs. As usual her father was waiting for her, as usual he came up and kissed her; and as they had done every morning for so many years, they sat down opposite each other to breakfast. Charlotte longed to speak to her father about Mrs. Home, but he looked, even to her inexperienced eyes, very ill and haggard, and she remembered her uncle's words and refrained from the subject.

"You seem so feeble, father, had you not better go into town in the carriage this morning?" she asked, as he rose from his chair.

To her surprise he assented, even confessed that he had already ordered the carriage. He had never to her knowledge done such a thing before, and little as she knew of real illness, nothing as she knew of danger and death, she felt a sharp pain at her heart as she watched him driving away. The pain, however, was but momentary, lost in the pressing interests of other thoughts. Before eleven o'clock she had started off to see Mrs. Home.

Now it was by no means her intention to go to this newly found relation empty handed. Mrs. Home might or might not be willing to receive a gift of money, but Charlotte hoped so to be able to convey it to her as to save her pride from being too greatly hurt.

Charlotte had a small banking account of her own. She drove now straight to her bank in the city, and drawing fifty pounds in one note slipped it into her purse. From the bank she went to a children's West End shop. She there chose a lovely velvet frock for the fair-haired little Daisy, two embroidered white dresses for the baby; and going a little farther she bought a smart tailor suit for the eldest boy. After buying the pretty clothes she visited a toy shop, where she loaded herself with toys; then a cake shop to purchase cakes and other goodies; and having at last exhausted her resources; she desired the coachman to drive to Mrs. Home's address in Kentish Town. She arrived, after a drive of a little over half an hour, to find the lady whom she had come to seek, out. The dirty little maid stared with full round eyes at the beautiful young lady and at the handsome carriage, and declared she did not know when her missis would be in.

For a moment Charlotte felt foiled; but she was excited now—she could not go away, laden as she was with fairy gifts, without making some effort to dispense these blessings.

"I am a relation of Mrs. Home's and I want to see the children. Are the children in?" she asked of the little maid.

Rounder and rounder grew that small domestic's eyes.

"They can't be hout without me," she volunteered; "ain't I the nuss and maid-of-all work? Yes, the children is hin."

Then she opened the dining-room door, and Charlotte, first flying to the carriage and returning laden with brown paper parcels, followed her into the little parlor.

The maid, on the swift wings of excitement, flew upstairs. There was the quick patter of eager little feet, and in a very few moments the door was pushed open and a boy and girl entered. Charlotte recognized them at a glance. They were the very handsome little pair whose acquaintance she had made yesterday in Regent's Park. The girl hung back a trifle shyly, but the boy, just saying to his sister, "The pretty lady," came up, and raised his lips for a kiss.

"You don't think me rude?" he said; "you don't mind kissing me, do you."

"I love to kiss you; I am your own cousin," said Charlotte.

"My own cousin! Then I may sit on your knee. Daisy, come here—the pretty lady is our own cousin."

On hearing this, Daisy too advanced. Neither child had any idea what the word cousin meant, but it seemed to include proprietorship. They stroked Charlotte's furs, and both pairs of lips were raised again and again for many kisses. In the midst of this scene entered the little maid with the baby. Pretty as Daisy and Harold were, they were nothing to the baby; this baby of eight months had a most ethereal and lovely face.

"Oh, you beauty! you darling!" said Charlotte, as she clasped the little creature in her arms, and the baby, too young to be shy, allowed her to kiss him repeatedly.

"What a lot of lumber!" said Daisy, touching the brown-paper parcels.

This little child's speech brought Charlotte back to the fact of her cakes and toys. Giving baby to his small nurse, she opened her treasures. Daisy received her doll with a kind of awed rapture, Harold rattled his drum and blew his trumpet in a way most distracting to any weak nerves within reasonable distance, and the baby sucked some rather unwholesome sweets. No child thought of thanking their benefactor, but flushed cheeks, bright eyes, eager little voices, were thanks louder and more eloquent than words.

"I want to see your mother; when will she be in?" asked Charlotte, after a little quiet had been restored.

"Not all day," answered Harold. "Mother has gone with father to nurse a poor sick lady; she won't be back till quite night."

"She said we were to be very good; we are, aren't we?" said Daisy.

"Yes, darling; you are quite perfect," replied the inexperienced Charlotte.

"Did our mother ask you to come and play with us and give us lovely things?" demanded Harold.

"She does not know I am here, my dear little boy; but now, if you will show me where I can get a sheet of paper, I will just write your mother a little note."

The paper was quickly found, and Charlotte sat down, a boy and girl on each side. It was not easy to say much under such circumstances, so the words in the little note were few.

"You will give this to your mother when she comes in. See!—I will put it on the mantelpiece," she said to Harold; "and you must not touch these parcels until mother opens them herself. Yes; I will come again. Now, good-by." Her bonnet was decidedly crooked as she stepped into the carriage, her jacket was also much crumpled; but there was a very sweet feel of little arms still round her neck, and she touched her hair and cheeks with satisfaction, for they had been honored by many child kisses.

"I believe she's just a fairy godmother," said Harold, as he watched the carriage rolling away.

"I never seed the like in hall my born days," remarked the small maid-of-all-work.



CHAPTER XIX.

"THE PRETTY LADY"

"Mother, mother, mother!"

"And look!—oh, do look at what I have got!" were the words that greeted Mrs. Home, when, very tired, after a day of hard nursing with one of her husband's sick parishioners, she came back.

The children ought to have been in bed, the baby fast asleep, the little parlor-table tidily laid for tea: instead of which, the baby wailed unceasingly up in the distant nursery, and Harold and Daisy, having nearly finished Charlotte's sweeties, and made themselves very uncomfortable by repeated attacks on the rich plum-cake, were now, with very flushed cheeks, alternately playing with their toys and poking their small fingers into the still unopened brown-paper parcels. They had positively refused to go up to the nursery, and, though the gas was lit and the blinds were pulled down, the spirit of disorder had most manifestly got into the little parlor.

"Oh, mother!—what do you think? The lovely lady!—the lady we met in the park yesterday!—she has been, and she brought us lots of things—toys, and sweeties, and cakes, and—oh, mother, do look!"

Daisy presented her doll, and Harold blew some very shrill blasts from his trumpet right up into his mother's eyes.

"My dear children," said Mrs. Home, "whom do you mean? where did you get all these things? who has come here? Why aren't you both in bed? It is long past your usual hour."

This string of questions met with an unintelligible chorus of replies, in which the words "pretty lady," "Regent's Park," "father knew her," "we had to sit up," so completely puzzled Mrs. Home, that had not her eyes suddenly rested on the little note waiting for her on the mantelpiece she would have been afraid her children had taken leave of their senses.

"Oh, yes; she told us to give you that," said Harold when he saw his mother take it up.

I have said the note was very short. Charlotte Home read it in a moment.

"Mother, mother! what does she tell you, and what are in the other parcels? She said we weren't to open them until you came home. Oh, do tell us what she said, and let us see the rest of the pretty things!"

"Do, do mother; we have been so patient 'bout it!" repeated little Daisy.

Harold now ran for the largest of the parcels, and raised it for his mother to take. Both children clung to her skirts. Mrs. Home put the large parcel on a shelf out of reach, then she put aside the hot and eager little hands. At last she spoke.

"My little children must have some more patience, for mother can tell them nothing more to-night. Yes, yes, the lady is very pretty and very kind, but we can talk no more about anything until the morning. Now, Harold and Daisy, come upstairs at once."

They were an obedient, well-trained little pair. They just looked at one another, and from each dimpled mouth came a short, impatient sigh; then they gave their hands to mother, and went gravely up to the nursery. Charlotte stayed with her children until they were undressed. She saw them comfortably washed, their baby prayers said, and each little head at rest on its pillow, then kissing the baby, who was also by this time fast asleep, she went softly downstairs.

Anne, the little maid, was flying about, trying to get the tea ready and some order restored, but when she saw her mistress she could not refrain from standing still to pour out her excited tale.

"Ef you please, 'em, it come on me hall on a 'eap. She come in that free and that bounteous, and seemed as if she could eat all the children up wid love; and she give 'em a lot, and left a lot more fur you, 'em. And when she wor goin' away she put half-a-crown in my hand. I never seed the like—never, 'em—never! She wor dressed as grand as Queen Victory herself, and she come in a carriage and two spanking hosses; and, please, 'em, I heard of her telling the children as she wos own cousin to you, 'em."

"Yes, I know the young lady," replied Mrs. Home. "She is, as you say, very nice and kind. But now, Anne, we must not talk any more. Your master won't be in for an hour, but I shan't wait tea for him; we will have some fresh made later. Please bring me in a cup at once, for I am very tired."

Anne gazed at her mistress in open-eyed astonishment. Any one—any one as poor as she well knew missis to be—who could take the fact of being cousin to so beautiful and rich a young lady with such coolness and apparent indifference quite passed Anne's powers of comprehension.

"It beats me holler—that it do!" she said to herself; then, with a start, she ran off to her kitchen.

Mrs. Home had taken her first cup of tea, and had even eaten a piece of bread and butter, before she again drew Charlotte Harman's little note out of her pocket. This is what her eyes had already briefly glanced over:—

DEAR FRIEND AND SISTER—for you must let me call you so—I have come to see you, and finding you out asked to see your children. I have lost my heart to your beautiful and lovely children. They are very sweet! Your baby is more like an angel than any earthly creature my eyes have ever rested on. Charlotte, I brought your children a few toys, and one or two other little things. You won't be too proud to accept them. When I bought them I did not love your children, but I loved you. You are my near kinswoman. You won't take away the pleasure I felt when I bought those things. Dear Sister Charlotte, when shall we meet again? Send me a line, and I will come to you at any time. Yours,

"CHARLOTTE HARMAN."

It is to be regretted that Charlotte Home by no means received this sweet and loving little note in the spirit in which it was written. Her pale, thin face flushed, and her eyes burnt with an angry light. This burst of excited feeling was but the outcome of all she had undergone mentally since she had left Miss Harman's house a few days ago. She had said then, and truly, that she loved this young lady. The pride, the stately bearing, the very look of open frankness in Charlotte's eyes had warmed and touched her heart. She had not meant to tell to those ears, so unaccustomed to sin and shame, this tale of long-past wrong. It had been in a manner forced from her, and she had seen a flush of perplexity, then of horror, color the cheeks and fill the fine brave eyes. She had come away with her heart sympathies so moved by this girl, so touched, so shocked with what she herself had revealed, that she would almost rather, could her father's money now be hers, relinquish it, than cause any further pain or shame to Charlotte Harman.

She came home and confided what she had done to her husband. It is not too much to say that he was displeased—that he was much hurt. The Charlotte who in her too eagerness for money could so act was scarcely the Charlotte he had pictured to himself as his wife. Charlotte was lowered in the eyes of the unworldly man. But just because her husband was so unworldly, so unpractical, Charlotte's own more everyday nature began to reassert itself. She had really done no harm. She had but told a tale of wrong. Those who committed the wrong were the ones to blame. She, the sufferer—who could put sin at her door? Her sympathy for Charlotte grew less, her sorrow for herself and her children more. She felt more sure than ever that injustice had been committed—that she and her mother had been robbed; she seemed to read the fact in Charlotte Harman's innocent eyes, Charlotte, in spite of herself, even though her own father was the one accused, believed her—agreed with her.

All that night she spent in a sort of feverish dream, in which she saw herself wealthy, her husband happy, her children cared for as they ought to be. The ugly, ugly poverty of her life and her surroundings had all passed away like a dream that is told.

She got up in a state of excitement and expectation, for what might not Charlotte Harman do for her? She would tell the tale to her father, and that father, seeing that his sin was found out, would restore her to her rights. Of course, this must be the natural consequence. Charlotte was not low and mean; she would see that she had her own again. Mrs. Home made no allowance for any subsequent event—for any influence other than her own being brought to bear on the young lady. All that day she watched the post; she watched for the possibility of a visit. Neither letter nor visit came, but Mrs. Home was not discouraged. That day was too soon to hear; she must wait with patience for the morrow.

On the morrow her husband, who had almost forgotten her story, asked her to come and help him in the care of a sick woman at some distance away. Charlotte was a capital sick-nurse, and had often before given similar aid to Mr. Home in parish work.

She went, spent her day away, and returned to find that Charlotte had come—that so far her dream was true. Yes, but only so far, for Charlotte had come, not in shame, but in the plenitude of a generous benefactor. She had come laden with gifts, and had gone away with the hearts of the children and the little maid. Charlotte Home felt a great wave of anger and pain stealing over her heart. In her pain and disappointment she was unjust.

"She is a coward after all. She dare not tell her father. She believes my tale, but she is not brave enough to see justice done to me and mine; so she tries to make up for it; she tries to salve her conscience and bribe me with gifts—gifts and flattery. I will have none of it. My rights—my true and just rights, or nothing! These parcels shall go back unopened to-morrow." She rose from her seat, and put them all tidily away on a side-table. She had scarcely done so before her husband's latch-key was heard in the hall-door. He came in with the weary look which was habitual to his thin face. "Oh, Angus, how badly you do want your tea!" said the poor wife. She was almost alarmed at her husband's pallor, and forgot Charlotte while attending to his comfort.

"What are those parcels, Lottie?" he said, noticing the heaped-up things on the side-table.

"Never mind. Eat your supper first," she said to him.

"I can eat, and yet know what is in them. They give quite a Christmas and festive character to the place. And what is that I see lying on that chair—a new doll for Daisy? Why, has my careful little woman been so extravagant as to buy the child another doll?"

Mr. Home smiled as he spoke. His wife looked at him gravely. She picked up the very pretty doll and laid it with the other parcels on the side-table.

"I will tell you about the parcels and the doll if you wish it," she answered. "Miss Harman called when I was out, and brought cakes, and sweeties, and toys to the children. She also brought those parcels. I do not know what they contain, for I have not opened them. And she left a note for me. I cannot help the sweeties and cakes, for Harold and Daisy have eaten them; but the toys and those parcels shall go back to-morrow."

Mrs. Home looked very proud and defiant as she spoke. Her husband glanced at her face; then, with a slight sigh, he pushed his supper aside.

"No, I am not hungry, dear. I am just a little overtired. May I see Miss Harman's note?"

Charlotte put it at once into his hand.

He read it carefully once—twice. His own spirit was very loving and Christ-like; consequently the real love and true human feeling in the little note touched him.

"Lottie," he said, as he gave it back to his wife, "why do you want to pain that sweet creature?"

Mrs. Home took the note, and flung it into the fire.

"There!" she said, an angry spot on each cheek. "She and hers have injured me and mine. I don't want gifts from her. I want my rights!"

To this burst of excited feeling Mr. Home answered nothing. After a moment or two of silence he rang the bell, and when Anne appeared asked her to take away the tea-things. After this followed an hour of perfect quiet. Mrs. Home took out her great basket of mending. Mr. Home sat still, and apparently idle, by the fire. After a time he left the room to go for a moment to his own. Passing the nursery, he heard a little movement, and, entering softly, saw Harold sitting up in his little cot.

"Father, is that you?" he called through the semi-light.

"Yes, my boy. Is anything the matter? Why are you not asleep?"

"I couldn't, father dear; I'm so longing for to-morrow. I want to blow my new trumpet again, and to see the rest of the brown-paper parcels. Father, do come over to me for a moment."

Mr. Home came, and put his arm round the little neck.

"Did mother tell you that our pretty lady came to-day, and brought such a splendid lot of things?"

"Whose pretty lady, my boy?"

"Ours, father—the lady you, and I, and Daisy, and baby met in the park yesterday. You said it was rude to kiss her, and she did not mind. She gave me dozens and dozens of kisses to-day."

"She was very kind to you," said Mr. Home. Then, bidding the child lie down and sleep, he left him and went on to his own room. He was going to his room with a purpose. That purpose was quickened into intensity by little Harold's words.

That frank, fearless, sweet-looking girl was Miss Harman! That letter was, therefore, not to be wondered at. It was the kind of letter he would have expected such a woman to write. What was the matter with his Lottie?

In his perplexity he knelt down; he remained upon his knees for about ten minutes, then he returned to the little parlor. The answer to his earnest prayer was given to him almost directly. His wife was no longer proud and cold. She looked up the moment he entered, and said,—

"You are angry with me, Angus."

"No, my darling," he answered, "not angry, but very sorry for you."

"You must not be sorry for me. You have anxieties enough. I must not add to them. Not all the Miss Harmans that ever breathe shall bring a cloud between you and me. Angus, may I put out the gas and then sit close to you? You shall talk me out of this feeling, for I do feel bad."

"I will talk all night if it makes you better, my own Lottie. Now, what is troubling you?"

"In the first instance, you don't seem to believe this story about our money."

"I neither believe it, nor the reverse—I simply don't let it trouble me."

"But, Angus, that seems a little hard; for if the money was left to me by my father I ought to have it. Think what a difference it would make to us all—you, and me, and the children?"

"We should be rich instead of poor. It would make that difference, certainly."

"Angus, you talk as if this difference was nothing."

"Nothing! It is not quite nothing; but I confess it does not weigh much with me."

"If not for yourself, it might for the children's sakes; think what a difference money would make to our darlings."

"My dear wife, you quite forgot when speaking so, that they are God's little children as well as ours. He has said that not a sparrow falls without His loving knowledge. Is it likely when that is so, that He will see His children and ours either gain or suffer from such a paltry thing as money?"

"Then you will do nothing to get back our own?"

"If you mean that I will go to law on the chance of our receiving some money which may have been left to us, certainly I will not. The fact is, Lottie—you may think me very eccentric—but I cannot move in this matter. It seems to me to be entirely God's matter, not ours. If Mr. Harman has committed the dreadful sin you impute to him, God must bring it home to him. Before that poor man who for years has hidden such a sin in his heart, and lived such a life before his fellow-men, is fit to go back to the arms of His father, he must suffer dreadfully. I pray, from my heart I pray, that if he committed the sin he may have the suffering, for there is no other road to the Father; but I cannot pray that this awful suffering may be sent to give us a better house, and our children finer clothes, and that richer food may be put on our table."

Mrs. Home was silent for a moment, then she said,—

"Angus, forgive me, I did not look at it in that light."

"No, my dearest, and because I so pity her, if her father really is guilty, I do not want you unnecessarily to pain Miss Harman. You remember my telling you of that fine girl I met in Regent's Park yesterday, the girl who was so kind and nice to our children. I have just been up with Harold, and he tells me that your Miss Harman and his pretty lady are one and the same."

"Is that really so?" answered Mrs. Home. "Yes. I know that Charlotte Harman is very attractive. Did I not tell you, Angus, that she had won my own heart? But I confess when I saw those gifts and read her note I felt angry. I thought after hearing my tale she should have done more. These presents seemed to me in the light of a bribe."

"Charlotte!"

"Ah! I know you are shocked. You cannot see the thing with my eyes; that is how they really looked to me."

"Then, my dear wife, may I give you a piece of advice?"

"That is what I am hungering for, Angus."

"Tell the whole story, as frankly—more frankly than you have told it to me, to God to-night. Lay the whole matter in the loving hands of your Father, then, Charlotte; after so praying, if in the morning you still think Miss Harman was actuated by so mean a spirit, treat her as she deserves. With your own hands deal the punishment to her, send everything back."