"My dear, I do own that your father is ill. I own, too, that I have, by his most express wish, made as light of the matter to you as I could. The fact is, Charlotte, he is anxious, very anxious, about himself. He thinks himself much worse than I believe him to be; but his strongest desire is, that now, on the eve of your marriage, you should not be alarmed on his account. I firmly believe you have no cause for any special fear. Ought you not to respect his wishes, and rest satisfied without seeking to know more than he and I tell you? I will swear, Charlotte, if that is any consolation to you, that I am not immediately anxious about your father."

"You need not swear, Uncle Jasper. Your not being anxious does not prevent my being so. I am determined to find out the exact truth. If he thinks himself very ill he has, of course, consulted some medical man. If you will not tell me his name I will myself ask my father to do so to-night."

"By so doing you will shock him, and the doctor does not wish him to be shocked."

"Just so, Uncle Jasper, and you can spare him that by telling me what you know."

"My dear niece, if you will have it?"

"I certainly am quite resolved, uncle."

"Well, well, you approach this subject at your peril. If you must see the doctor you must. Wilful woman over again. Would you like me to go with you?"

"No, thank you; I prefer to go alone. What is the doctor's name?"

"Sir George Anderson, of B—— Street."

"I will go to him at once," said Charlotte.

She left the room instantly, though she heard her uncle calling her back. Yes, she would go to Sir George at once. She pulled out her watch, ran upstairs, put on some out-door dress, and in ten minutes from the time she had learned the name of the great physician was in a hansom driving to his house. This rapid action was a relief to her. Presently she arrived at her destination. Yes, the doctor was at home. He was engaged for the present with another patient, but if Charlotte liked to wait he would see her in her turn. Certainly she would wait. She gave her card to the man who admitted her, and was shown into a room, very dark and dismal, where three or four patients were already enduring a time of suspense waiting for their interviews. Charlotte, knowing nothing of illness, knew, if possible, still less of doctors' rooms. A sense of added depression came over her as she seated herself on the nearest chair, and glanced, from the weary and suffering faces of those who waited anxiously for their doom, to the periodicals and newspapers piled on the table. A gentleman seated not far off handed her the last number of the Illustrated London News. She took it, turning the pages mechanically. To her dying day she never got over the dislike to that special paper which that half hour created.

One by one the patients' names were called by the grave footman as he came to summon them. One by one they went away, and at last, at last, Charlotte's turn came. She had entered into conversation with a little girl of about sixteen, who appeared to be in consumption, and the little girl had praised the great physician in such terms that Charlotte felt more than ever that against his opinion there could be no appeal. And now at last she was in the great man's presence, and, healthy girl that she was, her heart beat so loud, and her face grew so white, that the practised eyes of the doctor might have been pardoned for mistaking her for a bona-fide patient.

"What are you suffering from?" he asked of her.

"It is not myself, Sir George," she said, then making a great effort to control her voice—"I have come about my father—my father is one of your patients. His name is Harman."

Sir George turned to a large book at his side, opened it at a certain page, read quietly for a moment, then closing it, fixed his keen eyes on the young lady.

"You are right," he said, "your father, Mr. Harman, is one of my patients. He came to see me no later than last week."

"Sir," said Charlotte, and her voice grew steadier and braver as she spoke, "I am in perfect health, and my father is ill. I have come here to-day to learn from your lips the exact truth as to his case."

"The exact truth?" said the doctor. "Does your father know you have come here, Miss—Miss Harman?"

"He does not, Sir George. My father is a widower, and I am his only child. He has endeavored to keep this thing from me, and hitherto has partially succeeded. Yesterday, through another source, I learned that he is very seriously ill. I have come to you to know the truth. You will tell it to me, will you not?"

"I certainly can tell it to you."

"And you will?"

"Well, the fact is, Miss Harman, he is anxious that you should not know. I am scarcely prepared to fathom your strength of character. Any shock will be of serious consequence to him. How can I tell how you will act when you know all?"

"You are preparing me for the worst now, Sir George. I solemnly promise you in no way to use my knowledge so as to give my father the slightest shock."

"I believe you," answered the doctor. "A brave woman can do wonders. Women are unselfish; they can hide their own feelings to comfort and succor another. Miss Harman, I am sorry for you, I have bad news for you."

"I know it, Sir George. My father is very ill."

"Your father is as seriously ill as a man can be to be alive; in short, he is—dying."

"Is there no hope?"

"None."

"Must he die soon?" asked Charlotte, after a brief pause.

"That depends. His malady is of such a nature that any sudden shock, any sudden grief will probably kill him instantly. If his mind is kept perfectly calm, and all shocks are kept from him, he may live for many months."

"Oh! terrible!" cried Charlotte.

She covered her face. When she raised it at last it looked quite haggard and old.

"Sir George," she said, "I do not doubt that in your position as a doctor you have come across some secrets. I am going to confide in you, to confide in you to a certain measure."

"Your confidence shall be sacred, my dear young lady."

"Yesterday, Sir George, I learned something, something which concerns my father. It concerns him most nearly and most painfully. It relates to an old and buried wrong. This wrong relates to others; it relates to those now living most nearly and most painfully."

"Is it a money matter?" asked the doctor.

"It is a money matter. My father alone can set it right. I mean that during his lifetime it cannot possibly in any way be set right without his knowledge. Almost all my life, he has kept this thing a secret from me and—and—from the world. For three and twenty years it has lain in a grave. If he is told now, and the wrong cannot be repaired without his knowledge, it will come on him as a—disgrace. The question I ask of you is this: can he bear the disgrace?"

"And my answer to you, Miss Harman, is, that in his state of health the knowledge you speak of will instantly kill him."

"Then—then—God help me! what am I to do? Can the wrong never be righted?"

"My dear young lady, I am sincerely sorry for you. I cannot enter into the moral question, I can only state a fact. As your father's physician I forbid you to tell him."

"You forbid me to tell him?" said Charlotte. She got up and pulled down her veil. "Thank you," she said, holding out her hand. "I have that to go on—as my father's physician you forbid him to know?"

"I forbid it absolutely. Such a knowledge would cause instant death."



CHAPTER XXXIX

PUZZLED.

The old Australian Alexander Wilson, had left his niece, Charlotte Home, after his first interview with her, in a very disturbed state of mind. More disturbed indeed was he than by the news of his sister's death. He was a rich man now, having been successful in the land of his banishment, and having returned to his native land the possessor of a moderate fortune. He had never married, and he meant to live with Daisy and share his wealth with her. But in these day-dreams he had only thought of his money as giving some added comforts to his rich little sister, enabling her to have a house in London for the season, and, while living in the country, to add more horses to her establishment and more conservatories to build and tend. His money should add to her luxuries and, consequently, to her comforts. He had never heard of this unforgotten sister for three and twenty years, the strange dislike to write home having grown upon him as time went on but though he knew nothing about her, he many a time in his own wild and solitary life pictured her as he saw her last. Daisy never grew old to him. Death and Daisy were not connected. Daisy in his imagination was always young, always girlish always fresh and beautiful. He saw her as he saw her last in her beautiful country home standing by her rich husband's side, looking more like his daughter than his wife. No, Sandy never dreamed that Daisy would or could die, but in thinking of her he believed her to be a widow. That husband, so old, when he went away, must be dead.

On his arrival in England, Sandy went down into Hertfortshire. He visited the place where he had last seen his sister. It was in the hands of strangers—sold long ago. No one even remembered the name of Harman. Then he met little Daisy Home, and learned quite by accident that his Daisy was dead, and that the pretty child who reminded him of her was her grandchild. He went to visit Charlotte Home, and there made a fresh discovery. Had his Daisy been alive she would have wanted far more from his well-filled purse than horses and carriages. She would have needed not the luxuries of life, but the necessities. He had imagined her rich, while she had died in poverty. She had died poor, and her child, her only child, bore evident marks of having met face to face with the sorest of all want, that which attacks the gently born. Her face, still young, but sadly thin and worn, the very look in her eyes told this fact to Sandy.

Yes; his pretty Daisy, whom he had imagined so rich, so bountifully provided for, had died a very poor and struggling woman. Doubtless this sad and dreadful fact had shortened her days. Doubtless but for this monstrous injustice she would be alive now, ready to welcome her long-lost brother back to his native land.

All that night Sandy Wilson lay awake. He was a hale and hearty man, and seldom knew what it was to toss for any time on his pillow; but so shocked was he, that this night no repose would visit him. An injustice had been done, a fraud committed, and it remained for him to find out the evil thing, to drag it to the light, to set the wronged right once more. Charlotte Home was not at all the character he could best understand. She was not in the least like her mother. She told the tale of her wrongs with a strange and manifest reluctance. She believed that a fraud had been committed. She was fully persuaded that not her long-dead father but her living half-brothers were the guilty parties. In this belief Sandy most absolutely shared. He longed to drag these villains into the glaring light of justice, to expose them and their disgraceful secret to the shameful light of day. But in this longing he saw plainly that Charlotte did not share. He was puzzled, scarcely pleased that this was so. How differently little Daisy would have acted had she been alive. Dear little innocent Daisy, who all alone could do nothing, would in his strong presence have grown so brave and fearless. She would have put the case absolutely and once for all into his hands. Now this her daughter did not seem disposed to do. She said to him, with most manifest anxiety, "You will do nothing without me. You will do nothing until we meet again."

This he had promised readily enough, for what could he do in the short hours which must elapse between now and their next meeting? As he was dressing, however, on the following morning, a sudden idea did occur to him, and on this idea he resolved to act before he saw Charlotte at six o'clock in the evening. He would go to Somerset House and see Mr. Harman's will. What Daisy first, and now Charlotte, had never thought of doing during all these years he would do that very day. Thus he would gain certain and definite information. With this information it would be comparatively easy to know best how to act.

He went to Somerset House. He saw the will; he saw the greatness of the robbery committed so many years ago; he saw and he felt a wild kind of almost savage delight in the fact that he could quickly and easily set the wrong right, for he was one of the trustees. He saw all this, and yet—and yet—he went away a very unhappy and perplexed man, for he had seen something else—he had seen a woman's agony and despair. Sandy Wilson possessed the very softest soul that had ever been put into a big body. He never could bear to see even a dog in pain. How then could he look at the face of this girl which, all in a moment, under his very eyes, had been blanched with agony? He could not bear it. He forgot his fierce longing for revenge, he forgot his niece Charlotte's wrongs, in this sudden and passionate desire to succor the other Charlotte, the daughter of the bad man who had robbed his own sister, his own niece; he became positively anxious that Miss Harman should not commit herself; he felt a nervous fear as each word dropped from her lips; he saw that she spoke in the extremity of despair. How could he stop the words which told too much? He was relieved when the thought occurred to him to ask her to meet him again—again when they both were calmer. She had consented, and he found himself advising her, as he would have advised his own dear daughter had he been lucky enough to have possessed one. He promised her that nothing, nothing should be done until they met again, and so afraid was he that in his interview that evening with his niece, Mrs. Home, he might be tempted to drop some word which might betray ever so little that other Charlotte, that instead of going to Tremin's Road as he had intended, he wrote a note excusing himself and putting off his promised visit until the following evening.



CHAPTER XL.

CHARLOTTE'S PLEA.

When at last the time drew near for him to bend his steps in the direction of Somerset House he had by no means made up his mind how to act. His sympathies were still with Miss Harman. Her face had haunted him all night long; but he felt that every sense of justice, every sense of right, called upon him to befriend Mrs. Home. His dearly loved dead sister seemed to call to him from her grave and to ask him to rescue those belonging to her, to give again to these wronged ones what was rightfully theirs. In any case, seeing the wrong as he so plainly did, he would have felt called upon to take his sister's part in the matter. But as circumstances now stood, even had Mrs. Home been no relation to him whatever, he still must have acted for her and her alone. For was he not the other trustee? and did not the very law of the land of his birth demand that he should see that the terms of the will were carried out?

He arrived at the square of Somerset House, and found Miss Harman waiting for him.

She came up to him at once and held out her hand. His quick eye detected at a glance that she was now quite calm and collected, that whatever she might have done in the first agony of her despair yesterday, to-day she would do nothing to betray herself. Strange to say, he liked her far less well in this mood than he had done yesterday, and his heart and inclination veered round again to his wronged niece and her children with a sense of pleasure and almost triumph.

They began to walk up and down, and Miss Harman, finding that her companion was silent, was the first to speak.

"You asked me to meet you here to-day. What do you want to say to me?"

Good heavens! was she going to ride the high horse over him in this style? Sandy's small eyes almost flashed as he turned to look at her.

"A monstrous wrong has been done, Miss Harman," he answered. "I have come to talk about that."

"I know," replied Charlotte. "I have thought it all out. I know exactly what has been done. My grandfather died and left a sum of twelve hundred a year to my—to his wife. He left other moneys to my father and his brother. My father and his brother, my uncle, disregarded the claims of the widow and the orphan child. They appropriated the money—they—stole it—giving to my grandfather's widow a small sum during her life, which small sum they did not even allow to be retained by her child."

"That is pretty much the case, young lady. You have read the will with tolerable accuracy."

"I do not know in the least how the deed was done," continued Charlotte. "How such a crime could be committed and yet lie hidden all these years remains a terrible and mysterious thing to me. But that it was done, I can but use my own eyes in reading my grandfather's will to see."

"It was done easily enough, Miss Harman. They thought the other trustee was dead. Your father and his brother were false to their trust, and they never reckoned that Sandy Wilson would come back all alive and blooming one fine morning—Sandy, whose duty it is to see this great wrong put right."

"Yes, it is your duty," said Charlotte; and now, again, she grew very white; her eyes sought the ground and she was silent.

"It is my most plain duty," repeated Wilson, shuffling with his great feet as he walked by her side.

"I should like to know what steps you mean to take," continued Charlotte, suddenly raising her eyes to his face.

"Steps! Good gracious! young lady, I have not had time to go into the law of the thing. Besides, I promised to do nothing until we met again. But one thing is plain enough, and obvious enough—my niece, that young woman who might have been rich, but who is so poor—that young woman must come in for her own again. It is three-and-twenty years since her father died. She must receive from your father that money with all back interest for the last three and twenty years. That means a goodish bit of money I can tell you."

"I have no doubt it does," replied Charlotte. "Mrs. Home shall have it all."

"Well, I hope so, young lady, and soon, too. It seems to me she has had her share of poverty."

"She has had, as you say, her share of that evil. Mr. Wilson," again raising her eyes to his face, "I know Mrs. Home."

"You know her? You know my niece Charlotte personally? She did not tell me that."

"Yes, I know her. I should like to see her now."

"You would?—I am surprised! Why?"

"That I might go down on my knees to her."

"Well, good gracious! young lady, I supposed you might feel sorry, but I did not know you would humble yourself to that extent. It was not your sin."

"Hush! It was my father's sin. I am his child. I would go lower than my knees—I would lie on the ground that she might walk over me, if the better in that position I might plead for mercy."

"For mercy? Ay, that's all very well, but Charlotte must have her rights. Sandy Wilson must see to that."

"She shall have her rights! And yet I would see her if I could, and if I saw her I would go on my knees and plead for mercy."

"I don't understand you, Miss Harman."

"I do not suppose you do. Will you have patience with me while I explain myself?"

"I have come here to talk to you and to listen to you," said Wilson.

"Sir, I must tell you of my father, that man whom you (and I do not wonder) consider so bad—so low! When I read that will yesterday—when I saw with my own eyes what a fraud had been committed, what a great, great evil had been done, I felt in my first misery that I almost hated my father! I said to myself, 'Let him be punished!' I would have helped you then to bring him to punishment. I think you saw that?"

"I did, Miss Harman. I can see as far through a stone wall as most people. I saw that you were a bit stunned, and I thought it but fair that you should have time to calm down."

"You were kind to me. You acted as a good man and a gentleman. Then I scarcely cared what happened to my father; now I do."

"Ay, ay, young lady, natural feelings must return. I am very sorry for you."

"Mr. Wilson, I hope to make you yet more sorry. I must tell you more. When I saw you yesterday I knew that my father was ill—I knew that he was in appearance an old man, a broken down man, a very unhappy man; but since I saw you yesterday I have learned that he is a dying man—that old man against whom I hardened my heart so yesterday is going fast to judgment. The knowledge of this was kept from me, for my father so loved me, so guarded me all my life that he could not bear that even a pin's point of sorrow should rest upon me. After seeing you yesterday, and leaving you, I visited some poor people who, not knowing that the truth was hidden from me, spoke of it as a well known fact. I went away from them with my eyes opened. I only wondered they had been closed so long. I went away, and this morning I did more. I visited one of the greatest and cleverest doctors in London. This doctor my father, unknown to me, had for some time consulted. I asked him for his candid opinion on my father's case. He gave it to me. Nothing can save my father. My father must die! But he told me more; he said that the nature of his complaint was such that any shock must instantly kill him. He said without that shock he may live for months; not many months, but still for a few. Hearing this, I took the doctor still further into my confidence. I told him that a wrong had been committed—that during my father's lifetime that wrong could not be set right without his knowledge. I said that he must know something which would disgrace him. His answer was this: 'As his medical man, I forbid him to know; such a knowledge will cause certain and instant death.'"

Charlotte paused. Wilson, now deeply interested, even appalled, was gazing at her earnestly.

"I know Charlotte Home," continued Miss Harman; "and, as I said just now, I would see her now. Yes, she has needed money; she has longed for money; she has been cruelly wronged—most cruelly treated! Still, I think, if I pleaded long enough and hard enough, she would have mercy; she would not hurry that old man to so swift a judgment; she would spare him for those few, few months to which his life is now limited. It is for those months I plead. He is a dying man. I want nothing to be done during those months. Afterwards—afterwards I will promise, if necessary sign any legal paper you bring to me, that all that should have been hers shall be Charlotte Home's—I restore it all! Oh, how swiftly and how gladly! All I plead for are those few months."

Wilson was silent.

Charlotte suddenly looking at him almost lost her self-control.

"Must I go down on my knees to you, sir? I will if it is necessary. I will here—even here do so, if it is necessary."

"It is not, it is not, my dear Miss Harman. I believe you; from my soul I pity you! I will do what I can. I can't promise anything without my niece's permission; but I am to see her this evening."

"Oh, if you plead with her, she will have mercy; for I know her—I am sure of her! Oh! how can I thank you?—how can I thank you both?"

Here some tears rose to Charlotte's eyes, and rolled fast and heavily down her cheeks. She put up her handkerchief to wipe them away.

"You asked me to cry yesterday, but I could not; now I believe I shall be able," she said with almost a smile. "God bless you!"

Before Wilson could get in another word she had left him and, hurrying through the square, was lost to sight.

Wilson gazed after her retreating form; then he went into Somerset House, and once more long and carefully studied Mr. Harman's will.



CHAPTER XLI.

NO WEDDING ON THE TWENTIETH.

Charlotte was quite right in saying that now she could cry; a great tension had been removed, an immediate agony lightened. From the time she had left the doctor's presence until she had met Sandy Wilson, most intolerable had been her feelings. She would sink all pride when she saw him; for her father's sake, she would plead for mercy; but knowing nothing of the character of the man, how could she tell that she would be successful? How could she tell that he might not harden his heart against her plea? When she left him, however, she knew that her cause was won. Charlotte Home was to be the arbitrator of her fate; she had never in all her life seen such a hunger for money in any eyes as she had done in Charlotte's, and yet she felt a moral certainty that with Charlotte she was safe. In the immediate relief of this she could cry, and those tears were delicious to her. Returning from her drive, and in the solitude of her own room, she indulged in them, weeping on until no more tears would flow. They took the maddening pressure of heart and brain, and after them she felt strong and even calm. She had washed her face and smoothed her hair, and though she could not at once remove all trace of the storm through which she had just passed, she still looked better than she had done at breakfast that morning, when a tap came to her door, and Ward, her maid, waited outside.

"If you please, Miss Harman, the dressmaker has called again. Will you have the wedding dress fitted now?"

At the same instant and before Charlotte could reply, a footman appeared at the head of the stairs—"Mr. Hinton had arrived and was waiting for Miss Harman, in her own sitting-room."

"Say, I will be with him directly," she answered to the man, then she turned to Ward. "I will send you with a message to the dressmaker this evening; tell her I am engaged now."

The two messengers left, and Charlotte turned back into her room. She had to go through another fire. Well! the sooner it was over the better. She scarcely would give herself time for any thought as she ran quickly down the stairs and along the familiar corridor, and in a moment found herself in Hinton's presence. They had not met since yesterday morning, when they had parted in apparent coldness; but Hinton had long forgotten it, and now, when he saw her face, a great terror of pity and love came over him.

"My darling! my own darling!" he said. He came up to her and put his arms round her. "Charlotte, what is it? You are in trouble? Tell me."

Ah! how sweet it was to feel the pressure of his arms, to lay her head on his breast. She was silent for quite a minute, saying to herself, "It is for the last time."

"You are in great trouble, Charlotte? Charlotte, what is it?" questioned her lover.

"Yes, I am in great trouble," she said then, raising her head and looking at him. Her eyes were clear and frank and open as of old, and yet at that moment she meant to deceive him; she would not tell him the real reason which induced her to break off her engagement. She would shelter her father in the eyes of the man she loved, at any cost.

"You are in great trouble," he repeated, seeing that she paused.

"Yes, John—for myself—for my father—for—for you. Dear John, we cannot be married on the twentieth, we must part."

"Charlotte!" he stepped back a pace or two in his astonishment, and her arms fell heavily to her sides. "Charlotte!" he repeated; he had failed to understand her. He gave a short laugh.

She began to tremble when she heard him laugh, and seeing a chair near, she sunk into it. "Yes, John, we must part," she repeated.

He went down on his knees then by her side, and looked into her face. "My poor darling, you are really not well; you are in trouble, and don't know what you are saying. Tell me all your trouble, Charlotte, but don't mind those other words. It is impossible that you and I can part. Have we not plighted our troth before God? We cannot take that back. Therefore we cannot part."

"In heart we may be one, but outwardly we must part," she repeated, and then she began to cry feebly, for she was all unstrung. Hinton's words were too much for her.

"Tell me all," he said then, very tenderly.

"John, a dark thing was kept from me, but I have discovered it. My father is dying. How can I marry on the twentieth, when my father is dying?"

Hinton instantly felt a sense of relief. Was this all the meaning of this great trouble? This objection meant, at the most, postponement, scarcely that, when Charlotte knew all.

"How did you learn that about your father?" he said.

"I went to see some poor people yesterday, and they told me; but that was not enough. To-day I visited the great doctor. My father has seen Sir George Anderson; he told me all. My father is a dying man. John, can you ask me to marry when my father is dying?"

"I could not, Charlotte, if it were not his own wish."

"His own wish?" she repeated.

"Yes! some time ago he told me of this; he said the one great thing he longed for was to see you and me—you and me, my own Charlotte—husband and wife before he died."

"Why did he keep his state of health as a secret from me?"

"I begged of him to tell you, but he wanted you to be his own bright Charlotte to the end."

Then Hinton told her of that first interview he had with her father. He told it well, but she hardly listened. Must she tell him the truth after all? No! she would not. During her father's lifetime she would shield him at any cost. Afterwards, ah! afterwards all the world would know.

When Hinton had ceased speaking, she laid her hand on his arm. "Nevertheless, my darling, I cannot marry next week. I know you will fail to understand me. I know my father will fail to understand me. That is hard—the hardest part, but I am doing right. Some day you will acknowledge that. With my father dying I cannot stand up in white and call myself a bride. My marriage-day was to have been the entrance into Paradise to me. With a funeral so near, and so certain, it cannot be that. John—John—I—cannot—I cannot. We must not marry next week."

"You put it off, then? You deny your dying father his dearest wish? That is not like you, Charlotte."

"No, it is unlike me. Everything, always, again, will be unlike me. If you put it so, I deny my father his dearest wish."

"Charlotte, I fail to understand you. You will not marry during your father's lifetime. But it may be very quiet—very—very quiet, I can manage that; and you need not leave him, you can still be altogether his daughter, and yet make him happy by letting him feel that you are also my wife; that I have the right to shield you, the right to love and comfort you. Come, Charlotte! come, my darling! we won't have any outward festivity, any outward rejoicing. This is but natural, this can be managed, and yet we may have that which is above and beyond it all—one another. We may be one in our sorrow instead of our joy."

"Oh! if it could be," she sobbed; and now again she laid her head on his shoulder.

"It shall be, Charlotte; we will marry like that on the twentieth. I will manage it with your father."

"No John! no, my dearest, my best beloved, I cannot be your wife. Loving you as I never—never—loved you before, I give you up; it is worse than the agony of death to me. But I give you up."

"You postpone our marriage during your father's lifetime?"

"I postpone it—I do more—I break it off. Oh! John, don't look at me like that; pity me—pity me, my heart will break."

But he had pushed her a little away from him. Pale as death he rose to his feet. "Charlotte! you are deceiving me; you have another reason for this?"

"If you will have it so," she said.

"You are keeping a secret from me."

"I do not say so, but you are likely enough to think this," she repeated.

"Can you deny it?"

"I will not try, I know we must part."

"If this is so, we must. A secret between husband and wife is fatal."

"It would be, but I admit nothing, we cannot be husband and wife."

"Never, Charlotte?"

"Never!" she said.

Hinton thought for a moment, and then he came up and again took her hand. "Lottie, tell me that secret; trust me; I know there is a secret, tell it to me, all of it, let me decide whether it must part us."

"I cannot, my darling—my darling—I can say nothing, explain nothing, except that you and I must part."

"If that is so, we must," he said.

He was pained, shocked, and angry, beyond words. He left the room and the house without even another look.



CHAPTER XLII.

"I LOVE HIM," SHE ANSWERED.

That evening Charlotte came softly into her father's study and sat down by his side. She had not appeared at dinner-time, sending another excuse. She was not very well, she said; she would see her father later in the evening. But as she could not eat, she did not care to come to dinner. She would like to see her father quite alone afterwards. Charlotte had worded this verbal message with great care, for she wished to prepare her father for something of extra importance. Even with the tenderest watching it was impossible to avoid disturbing him a little, and she wished to prepare him for the very slight but unavoidable shock she must give. Jasper dined at Prince's Gate as usual. But after dinner he went away. And Charlotte, when she knew this, instantly went down to her father. She was now perfectly calm. For the time being had forgotten herself absolutely. Nothing gives outward composure like self-forgetfulness, like putting yourself in your fellow-man's place. Charlotte had done this when she stepped up to her old father's side. She had dressed herself, too, with special thought for him. There was a muslin frock, quite clear and simple, which he had loved. It was a soft Indian fabric, and clung to her fine figure in graceful folds. She had made Ward iron it out, and had put it on. Of late she had considered it too girlish, but to-night she appeared in it knowing it would please the eyes for which it was worn.

Mr. Harman was chilly and sat by the fire. As usual the room was softly but abundantly lit by candles. Charlotte loved light, and, as a rule, hated to talk to any one without looking at that person fully. But to-night an opposite motive caused her to put out one by one all the candles.

"Does not the room look cosy with only the firelight?" she said. And then she sat down on a low stool at her father's feet.

"You are better now, my love. Tell me you are better," he said, taking her hand in his.

"I am well enough to sit and talk to you, father," she said.

"But what ailed you, Lottie? You could not come to dinner either yesterday or to-day; and I remember you looked ill this morning. What is wrong?"

"I felt troubled, and that has brought on a headache. But don't let us talk about me. I mean, I suppose we must after a little, but not at first."

"Whom shall we talk about first? Who is more important? Is it Hinton? You cannot get me to think that Charlotte."

"You are more important. I want to talk about you."

Now she got hold of his hand, and, turning round, gazed firmly into his face.

"Father, you have troubled me. You have caused my headache."

Instantly a startled look came into his eyes; and she, reading him now—as, alas! she knew how to do but too well—hastened to soothe it.

"You wanted to send me away, to make me less your own, if that were possible. Father, I have come here to-night to tell you that I am not going away—that I am all your own, even to the end."

"My own to the end? Yes, you must always be that. But what do you mean?"

She felt the hand she held trembling, and hastened to add,—

"Why did you keep the truth from me? Why did you try to deceive me, your nearest and dearest, as to your state of health? But I know it all now. I am not going away from you."

"You mean—you mean, Charlotte, you will not marry Hinton next week?"

"No, father."

"Have you told him?"

"Yes."

"Charlotte, do you know the worst about me?"

"I know all about you. I went to see Sir George Anderson this morning. I forced from him the opinion he has already given to you. He says that I cannot keep you long. But while I can, we will never part."

Mr. Harman's hand had now ceased to tremble. It lay warm and quiet in his daughter's clasp. After a time he said—

"Put your arms round me darling."

She rose to her feet, clasped her hands round his neck, and laid her head on his shoulder. In this position he kissed first her bright hair, then her cheek and brow.

"But I want my little girl to leave me," he said. "Illness need not make me selfish. You can still be my one only dear daughter, and yet be Hinton's wife."

"I am your only dear daughter," she repeated. "Never mind about my being any man's wife." She tried to smile as she resumed her seat at his feet.

Mr. Harman saw the attempt at a smile, and it instantly strengthened him to proceed.

"Charlotte, I am not sorry that you know that which I had not courage either to tell you or to cause another to tell you. I am—yes, I am dying. Some day before long I must leave you, my darling. I must go away and return no more. But before I die I want to see you Hinton's wife. It will make me happier to see this, for you love him, and he can make you happy. You do love him, Charlotte?"

"Yes, I love him," she answered.

"Then we will not postpone the marriage. My child shall marry the man she loves, and have the strength of his love in the dark days that must follow; and in one week you will be back with me, no less my child because you are Hinton's wife."

"Father, I cannot."

"Not if I wish it, dear—if I have set my heart on it?"

"I cannot," she repeated.

She felt driven to her wits' end, and pressed her hands to her face.

"Charlotte, what is the meaning of this? There is more here than meets the eye. Have you and Hinton quarrelled?"

"No, except over this. And even over this it takes two to make a quarrel. I cannot marry next week; I have told him so. He is vexed, and you—you are vexed. Must I break my heart and leave you? You have always given me my own way; give it now. Don't send me away from you. It would break my heart to marry and leave you now."

"Is this indeed so, Charlotte?" he said. "Would you with your whole heart rather put it off?"

"With my whole, whole heart, I would rather," she said.

"I will not urge it. I cannot; and yet it destroys a hope which I thought might cheer me on my dying bed."

"Never mind the hope, father; you will have me. I shall not spend that week away from you."

"No, that week did seem long to look forward to."

"Ah! you are glad after all that I am to be with you," she said. "You will let me nurse you and care for you. You will not force yourself to do more than you are able. Now that I know all, I can take such care of you, and the thought of that will make me happier by and by."

"It is a relief that you know the worst," said Mr. Harman, but he did not smile or look contented; he, as well as Hinton, felt that there was more in this strange desire of Charlotte's than met the eye.



CHAPTER XLIII.

"YOU DON'T WANT MONEY?"

Sandy Wilson having again very carefully read Mr. Harman's will, felt much puzzled how to act. He was an honest, upright, practical man himself. The greatness of the crime committed quite startled him. He had no sympathy for the wicked men who had done the deed, and he had the very keenest sympathy for those against whom the deed was done. His little orphan and widowed sister and her baby child were the wronged ones. The men who had wronged her he had never seen. He said to himself that he had no sympathy, no sympathy whatever for Mr. Harman. What if he was a dying man, was that fact to screen him? Was he to be allowed to go down to his grave in peace, his gray head appearing to be to him a crown of glory, honored by the world, cheered for his great success in life? Was all this to be allowed to continue when he was worthy not of applause but of hisses, of the world's most bitter opprobrium?

And yet Sandy felt that, little or indeed no pity as he had for this most wicked man, even if Charlotte had not come to him and pleaded with eyes, voice, and manner he could scarcely have exposed Mr. Harman. He could scarcely, after hearing that great doctor's verdict, have gone up to the old man and said that which would hurry him without an instant's time for repentance, to judgment.

Alexander Wilson believed most fully in a judgment to come. When he thought of it now, a certain sense of relief came over him. He need not trouble so sorely; he might leave this sinner to his God. It is to be feared that he thought more of God's justice than of His loving mercy and forgiveness, as he decided to leave John Harman in His hands.

That evening at six o'clock he was to be again with Charlotte Home. For Charlotte Harman's sake, he had denied himself that pleasure the night before; but this evening the solitary man might enjoy the keen pleasure of being with his very own. Mrs. Home was his nearest living relation—the child of his own loved sister. He did not know yet whether he could love her at all as he had loved his little Daisy; but he felt quite sure that her children would twine themselves round his heart; for already the remembrance of Daisy Home was causing it to beat high with pleasure.

As the hour approached for his visit, he loaded himself with presents not only for the children, but for the whole family. He said to himself with much delight, that however much Mr. Harman's will might be tied up for the present, yet Sandy Wilson's purse was open. He had far less idea than Charlotte Harman what children really liked, but he loaded himself with toys, cakes, and sweeties; and for his special pet Daisy over and above the other two he bought the very largest doll that a Regent Street shop could furnish him with. This doll was as heavy as a baby, and by no means so beautiful to look at as its smaller companions. But Sandy was no judge in such matters.

With his presents for the adults of the party he was more fortunate. For his niece he purchased a black silk, which in softness, lustre, and quality could not be surpassed; for Mr. Home he bought two dozen very old port; for Anne, a bright blue merino dress.

These goods were packed into a four-wheeler, and, punctually at six o'clock, that well-laden cab drew up at 10, Tremins Road. Three eager pairs of eyes watched the unpacking, for the three pretty children, dressed in their best, were in the dining-room; Mr. Home was also present, and Charlotte had laid her tea-table with several unwonted dainties in honor of her uncle's visit. Anne, the little maid, was fluttering about; that well-laden cab had raised her spirits and her hopes. She flew in and out, helping the cabby to bring the numerous parcels into the hall.

"Ah! Annie, my girl, here's something for you," said Uncle Sandy, tossing her dress to her. After which, it is to be feared, Anne went off her head for a little bit.

The children, headed by their mother, came into the little hall to meet and welcome their uncle. He entered the dining-room with Daisy riding on his shoulder. Then before tea could even be thought of, the presents must be discussed. The cakes, the sweeties, the toys were opened out; the children scampered about, laughed, shouted, and kissed the old Australian. Never in all his life had Uncle Sandy felt so happy.

Over an hour passed in this way, then the mother's firm voice was heard. The little heads were raised obediently. Good-night kisses were given, and Harold, Daisy, and little Angus were led off to their nursery by the highly flushed and excited Anne.

The tea which followed and the quiet talk were nearly as pleasant, and Uncle Sandy so enjoyed himself, that for a time he completely forgot old Harman's will, his own half promise, Charlotte Harman's despair.

It was all brought back to him, however, and by the Homes themselves. The tea things had been removed, the gas was lit, the curtains drawn, and Charlotte Home had insisted on her old uncle seating himself in the one easy-chair which the room possessed. She herself stood on the hearthrug, and glancing for a moment at her husband she spoke.

"Uncle Sandy, it is so good to have you back again, and Angus and I are so truly glad to welcome my dear mother's brother to our home, that we think it hard to have to touch on anything the least gloomy to-night. Just a word or two will be sufficient, and then we must drop the subject for ever."

Uncle Sandy raised his wrinkled old face.

"Ah," he said. "If there's anything unpleasant, have it cut by all means—out and over—that's my own motto."

"We spoke the other night," continued Charlotte, "about my dear mother. I told you that she was poor—that she had to do with poverty, from the hour of my father's death until the end of her own life. It is all over for her now, she is at rest. If plenty of money could be found for her she would not need it. When I told you the story you expressed a doubt that all was not right; you said it was absolutely impossible that my father could have left my mother nothing; you said that either the will was tampered with or not acted on. Well, Uncle Sandy, I agree with you. I had long felt that something was not right."

"Ay, ay, my girl; I said before, you had a brain in your head and a head on your shoulders. Trust Uncle Sandy not to know a clever woman when he sees her."

"Well, uncle, I can say all the rest in a very few words. You said you could investigate the matter; that you could discover whether any foul play had been committed. I asked you not to do so until I saw you again; I now ask you not to do so at all; to let the whole matter rest always. In this I have my husband's sanction and wish."

"Yes, Lottie has my full approval in this matter," said Mr. Home, coming forward and laying his hand on his wife's shoulder. "We don't want money, we would rather let the matter rest."

"You don't want money!" said Uncle Sandy, gazing hard from the ethereal worn-looking man, to the woman, tall and thin, in her rusty dress, with every mark of poverty showing in thin cheek, in careworn eyes, in labor-stained hands. "You don't want money!" he repeated. "Niece Charlotte, I retract what I said of you—I thought you were not quite a fool. As to you, Home, I don't pretend to understand you. You don't want money?"

Mr. Home smiled. Charlotte bent down and kissed her old uncle's brow.

"Nevertheless, you will do what we wish, even though you don't understand," she said.

Uncle Sandy took her hand.

"Sit down near me, Niece Charlotte," he said. "And as to you, Home, you have a long story to hear. After you have heard it, it will be time enough to discuss your proposition. The fact is, Charlotte, I disobeyed you in part. You asked me to do nothing in this matter until we met again. I did nothing to compromise you; but, nevertheless, I was not idle, I wanted to set my own mind at rest. There was an easy way of doing this which I knew of, and which I wondered had not occurred to you. Charlotte, I went yesterday to Somerset House; doubtless, you know nothing of what took me there. I can soon enlighten you. In a certain part of that vast pile, all wills are obliged to be kept. Anyone who likes may go there, and, by paying the sum of one shilling, read any will they desire. I did so. I went to Somerset House and I saw your father's will."

"Yes," said Charlotte. Whatever her previous resolution, she no doubt felt keenly excited now. "Yes," she repeated, "you read my father's will."

"I read it. I read it in a hurry yesterday; to-day I saw it again and read it carefully. There is no flaw in it; it is a will that must stand, that cannot be disputed. Charlotte, you were right in your forebodings. Niece Charlotte, you and your mother, before you, were basely robbed, cruelly wronged; your dead father was just and upright; your living brothers are villains; your father left, absolutely to your mother first, and to you at her death, the sum of twelve hundred a year. He left to you both a large enough sum of money to realize that large yearly income. You were robbed of it. Do you know how?"

"No," said Charlotte. She said that one little word almost in a whisper. Her face was deadly pale.

"That money was left in your father's will in trust; it was confided to the care of three men, whose solemn duty it was to realize it for your mother first, afterwards for you and your children. Those men were called trustees; two of them, Charlotte, were your half-brothers, John and Jasper Harman; the other was your mother's only living brother, Sandy Wilson. These trustees were false to you: two of them by simply ignoring the trust and taking the money to themselves; the other, by pretending to be dead when he ought to have been in England attending to his duty. The Harmans, the other trustees, so fully believed me to be dead that they thought their sin would never be found out. But they reckoned without their host, for Sandy has returned, and the missing trustee can act now. Better late than never—eh, Niece Charlotte?"

"My poor mother!" said Charlotte, "my poor, poor mother!"

She covered her face with her hands. The suddenness and greatness of the crime done had agitated her. She was very much upset. Her husband came again very near and put his hand on her shoulder. His face, too, was troubled.

"It was a terrible sin," he said, "a terrible sin to lie on these men's breasts for three and twenty years. God help these sinners to repentance!"

"Yes, God help them," repeated Uncle Sandy, "and also those they have wronged. But now look up, Charlotte, for I have not told you all. A man never sins for himself alone; if he did it would not so greatly matter, for God and the pangs of an evil conscience would make it impossible for him to get off scot free; but—I found it out in the bush, where, I can tell you, I met rough folks enough—the innocent are dragged down with the guilty. Now this is the case here. In exposing the guilty the innocent must suffer. I don't mean you, my dear, nor my poor little wronged Daisy. In both your cases the time for suffering, I trust, is quite at an end, but there is another victim." Here Uncle Sandy paused, and Charlotte, having recovered her composure, stood upright on the hearthrug ready to listen. "When I went to Somerset House yesterday, I had, in order to obtain a sight of Mr. Harman's will, to go through a little ceremony. It is not necessary to go into it. I had to get certain papers, and take orders to certain rooms. All this was the little form imposed on me by the Government for my curiosity. At last I was told to go to a room, called the reading room, and asked to wait there until the will was brought to me. It was a small room, and I sat down prepared to wait patiently enough. There were about half-a-dozen people in the room besides myself, some reading wills, others waiting until they were brought. One woman sat at the table exactly opposite to me. She was the only woman in the room at the time, and perhaps that fact made me first notice her; but when I looked once, I could not have been old Sandy Wilson without wanting to look again. I have a weakness for fine women, and this woman was fine, in the sense that makes you feel that she is lovable. She was young, eager-looking. I have no doubt her features were handsome, but it was her open, almost childlike expression which attracted most. She was essentially a fine creature, and yet there was a peculiar childish innocence about her, that made old Sandy long to protect her on the spot. I was looking at her, and hoping she would not notice it and think old Sandy Wilson a bore, when a man came into the room and said something to the clerk at the desk. The clerk turned to me and said, 'The will of the name of Harman is being read at this moment by some one else in the room.' Instantly this girl looked up, her eyes met mine, her face grew all one blaze of color, though she was a pale enough lass the moment before, and a frightened expression came into her eyes. She looked down again at once, and went on reading in a hurried, puzzled way, as if she was scarcely taking in much. Of course I knew she had the will, and I did not want to hurry or confuse her, so I pretended to turn my attention to something else. It must have been quite a couple of minutes before I looked again, and then—I confess that I am not easily startled, but I did have to smother an exclamation—the poor girl must have discovered the baseness and the fraud in those two minutes. Had she been any other but the plucky lass she is, she would have been in a dead faint on the floor, for I never, never in all my pretty vast experience, saw a living face so white. I could not help looking at her then, for I was completely fascinated. She went on reading for half a minute longer; then she raised her eyes and gazed straight and full at me. She had big, open gray eyes, and a moment before, they were full of innocence and trust like a child's, now there was a wild anger and despair in them. She was quite quiet however, and no one else in the room noticed her. She pushed the will across the table to me and said, "That is Mr. Harman's will," then she put on her gloves quite slowly and drew down her veil, and left the room as sedately and quietly as you please. I just glanced my eye over the will. I took in the right place and saw the shameful truth. I was horrified enough, but I could not wait to read it all. I gave the will back intending to go to it another time, for I felt I must follow that girl at any cost. I came up to her in Somerset House square. I did not care what she thought; I must speak to her; I did. Poor lass! I think she was quite stunned. She did not resent the liberty old Sandy had taken. When I asked her to wait and let me talk to her she turned at once—I have not lived in the bush so long without being, I pride myself, sharp enough in reading character. I saw the girl, proud girl enough at ordinary times, was in that state of despair which makes people do desperate things. She was defiant, and told more than I expected. She was Miss Harman—Charlotte Harman, by the way, she said. Yes; her father had stolen that money; would I like to see him? he lived in such a place; his name was so-and-so. Yes; she was his only child. Her manner was so reckless, so defiant, and yet so full of absolute misery, that I could do nothing but pity her from my very heart. I forgot you, Niece Lottie, and your rights, and everything but this fine creature stricken so low through another's sins. I said, 'Hush, you shall say no more to-day. You are stunned, you are shocked, you must have time to think; I won't remember a thing you say about your father now. Go home and come back again to-morrow,' I said; 'sleep over it, and I will sleep over it, and I will meet you here to-morrow, when you are more calm.' She agreed to this and went away. I felt a little compunction for my own softness during that evening and night, Niece Charlotte, I felt that I was not quite true to you; but then you had not seen her face, poor brave young thing, poor young thing!"

Here Uncle Sandy paused and looked hard from his niece to her husband. Charlotte's eyes were full of tears, Mr. Home was smiling at him. There was something peculiar in this man's rare smiles which turned them into blessings. They were far more eloquent than words, for they were fed from some illumination of strong approval within. Uncle Sandy, without understanding, felt a warm glow instantly kindling in his heart.

Charlotte said, "Go on," in a broken voice.

"To-day, at the appointed hour, I met her again," proceeded the Australian. "She was changed, she was composed enough now, she was on her guard, she did not win my sympathy so much as in her despair. She was quite open, however, as to the nature of the crime committed, and told me she knew well what a sin her father had been guilty of. Suddenly she startled me by saying that she knew you, Charlotte. She said she wished she could see you now. I asked her why. She said, 'That I might go down on my knees to her.' I was surprised at such words coming from so proud a creature. I said so. She repeated that she would go down on her knees that she might the better plead for mercy. I was beginning to harden my old heart at that, and to think badly of her, when she stopped me, by telling me a strange and sad thing. She said that she had discovered something, something very terrible, between that hour and yesterday. Her father had been ill for some time, but the worst had been kept from her. She said yesterday that a poor person let her know quite accidentally that he was not only ill but dying. She went alone that morning to consult a doctor, one of those first-rate doctors whose word is law. Mr. Harman, it seemed, unknown to her, was one of this man's patients. He told her that he was hopelessly ill; that he could only live for a few months, and that any shock might end his days in a moment. She then told this doctor in confidence something of what she had discovered yesterday. He said, 'As his medical man, I forbid you to tell to your father this discovery you have made; if you do so he will die instantly.' Miss Harman told me this strange tale, and then she began to plead with me. She begged of me to show mercy; not to do anything in this matter during the few months which still remained of her father's life. Afterwards, she promised to restore all, and more than all of what had been stolen. I hesitated; I scarcely knew how to proceed. She saw it and exclaimed, 'Do you want me to go on my knees to you? I will this moment, and here.' Then I said I could do nothing without consulting you, I could do nothing without your consent. Instantly the poor thing's whole face changed—I never saw such a change from despair to relief. She held out her hand to me; she said she was safe; she said she knew you; and that with you she was safe. She said she never saw any one in her life seem to want money so badly as you; but for all that, with you she was quite safe. She looked so thankful. 'I can cry now,' she said as she went away." Uncle Sandy paused again, and again looked at his niece and her husband. "I told her that I would come to you to-night," he said, "that I would plead her cause, and I have, have I not?"

"Well and nobly," answered Mrs. Home. "Angus, think of her trusting me! I am so glad she could trust me. Indeed she is safe with us."

"How soon can you go to her in the morning, Lottie?" asked the curate.

"With the first dawn I should like to go, I only wish I could fly to her now. Oh, Angus! what she must suffer; and next Tuesday is to be her wedding-day. How my heart does ache for her! But I am glad she trusts me."

Here Mrs. Home become so excited that a great flood of tears came into her eyes. She must cry them away in private. She left the room, and the curate, sitting down, told to Uncle Sandy how Charlotte Harman had saved little Harold's life.



CHAPTER XLIV.

LOVE BEFORE GOLD.

For the first time in all her life, Mrs. Home laid her head on her pillow with the knowledge that she was a rich woman. Those good things which money can buy could be hers; her husband need want no more; her children might be so trained, so nurtured, so carefully tended that their beauty, their beauty both physical and moral, would be seen in clearest lustre. How often she had dreamed of the possibility of such a time arriving, and now at last it had come. Ever since her dying mother had told her own true history, she had dwelt upon this possible moment, dwelt upon it with many murmurings, many heart frettings. Could it be realized, she would be the happiest of women. Then she had decided to give it all up, to put the golden dream quite out of her life and, behold! she had scarcely done so before it had come true, the dream was a reality, the riches lay at her feet. In no way through her interference had this come about. Yes, but in the moment of her victory the woman who had so longed for money was very miserable; like Dead Sea apples was the taste of this eagerly desired fruit. She was enriched through another's anguish and despair, through the wrecking of another's happiness, and that other had saved the life of her child. Only one thing comforted Charlotte Home during the long hours of that weary night; Charlotte Harman had said.—

"With her I am safe; dearly as she loves money, with her I am quite safe."

Mrs. Home thought the slow moments would never fly until she was with the sister friend, who in her own bitter humiliation and shame could trust her. In the morning, she and her husband had a talk together. Then hurrying through her household duties, she started at a still very early hour for Prince's Gate. She arrived there before ten o'clock, and as she mounted the steps and pulled the ponderous bell she could not help thinking of her last visit; she had felt sore and jealous then, to-day she was bowed down by a sense of unworthiness and humility. Then, too, she had gone to visit this rich and prosperous young woman dressed in her very best, for she said to herself that whatever her poverty, she would look every inch the lady; she looked every inch the lady to-day, though she was in her old and faded merino. But that had now come to her which made her forget the very existence of dress. The grand footman, however, who answered her modest summons, being obtuse and uneducated, saw only the shabby dress; he thought she was a distressed workwoman, he had forgotten that she had ever come there before. When she asked for Miss Harman, he hesitated and was uncertain whether she could see his young lady; finally looking at her again, he decided to trust her so far as to allow her to wait in the hall while he went to inquire. Charlotte gave her name, Mrs. Home, and he went away. When he returned there was a change in his manner. Had he begun to recognize the lady under the shabby dress; or had Charlotte Harman said anything? He took Mrs. Home up to the pretty room she had seen before, and left her there, saying that Miss Harman would be with her in few moments. The room looked just as of old. Charlotte, as she waited, remembered that she had been jealous of this pretty room. It was as pretty to-day, bright with flowers, gay with sunshine; the same love-birds were in the same cage, the same canary sang in the same window, the same parrot swung lazily from the same perch. Over the mantelpiece hung the portrait in oils of the pretty baby, who yet was not so pretty as hers. Charlotte remembered how she had longed for these pretty things for her children, but all desire for them had left her now. There was the rustling of a silk dress heard in the passage, and Charlotte Harman carelessly, but richly attired, came in. There was, even in their outward appearance, the full contrast between the rich and the poor observable at this moment, for Charlotte Harman, too, had absolutely forgotten her dress, and had allowed Ward to put on what she chose. When they were about to reverse positions, this rich and this poor woman stood side by side in marked contrast. Charlotte Harman looked proud and cold; in the moment when she came to plead, she held her head high. Charlotte Home, who was to grant the boon, came up timidly, almost humbly. She took the hands of this girl whom she loved, held them firmly, then gathering sudden courage, there burst from her lips just the last words she had meant at this moment to say.

"How much I love you! how much I love you!"

As these fervent, passionate words were almost flung at her, Charlotte Harman's eyes began suddenly to dilate. After a moment she said under her breath, in a startled kind of whisper?

"You know all?"

"I know everything."

"Then you—you will save my father?"

"Absolutely. You need fear nothing from me or mine; in this we are but quits. Did not you save Harold?"

"Ah," said Charlotte Harman; she took no notice of her friend and guest, she sat down on the nearest chair and covered her face. When she raised her head, Mrs. Home was kneeling by her side.

"Charlotte," said Miss Harman—there was a change in her, the proud look and bearing were gone—"Charlotte," she said, "you and I are one age, but you are a mother; may I lay my head on your breast just for a moment?"

"Lay it there, my darling. As you have got into my heart of hearts, so would I comfort you."

"Ah, Charlotte, how my heart has beat! but your love is like a cool hand laid upon it, it is growing quiet."

"Charlotte, you are right in reminding me that I am a mother. I must treat you as I would my little Daisy. Daisy trusts me absolutely and has no fear; you must trust me altogether, and fear nothing."

"I do. I fear nothing when I am with you. Charlotte, next Tuesday was to have been my wedding-day."

"Yes, dear."

"But it is all on an end now; I broke off my engagement yesterday. And yet, how much I love him! Charlotte, don't look at me so pityingly."

"Was I doing so? I was wondering if you slept last night."

"Slept! No, people don't sleep when their hearts beat as hard as mine did, but I am better now."

"Then, Charlotte, I must prescribe for you, as a mother. For the next two hours you are my child and shall obey me; we have a great deal to say to each other; but first of all, before we say a single word, you must lie on this sofa, and I will hold your hand. You shall try and sleep."

"But can you spare the time from your children?"

"You are my child now; as long as you want me I will stay with you. See, I am going to draw down the blinds, and I will lock the door; you must not be disturbed."

It was thus that these two spent the morning. When Charlotte Harman awoke some hours later, quiet and refreshed, they had a long, long talk. That talk drew their hearts still closer together; it was plain that such a paltry thing as money could not divide these friends.



CHAPTER XLV.

THE FATE OF A LETTER.

Hinton had left the Harmans' house, after his strange interview with Charlotte, with a stunned feeling. It is not too much to say of this young man that he utterly failed to realize what had befallen him. He walked like one in a dream, and when he reached his lodgings in Jermyn Street, and sat down at last by his hearth, he thought of himself in a queer way, as if he were some one else; a trouble had come to some one else; that some one was a friend of his so he was called on to pity him. Gradually, however, it dawned upon him that the friend was unpleasantly close, that the some one else reigned as lord of his bosom. It was he—he himself he was called on to pity. It was on his hitherto so prosperous, young head that the storm had burst. Next Tuesday was to have been his wedding-day. There was to be no wedding. On next Tuesday he was to have won a bride, a wife; that other one dearer than himself was to give herself to him absolutely. In addition to this he was to obtain fortune: and fortune was to lead to far dearer, far nobler fame. But now all this was at an end; Tuesday was to pass as any other day—gray, neutral-tinted, indifferent, it was to go over his head. And why? This was what caused the sharpest sting of the anguish. There seemed no reason for it all. Charlotte's excuse was a poor one; it had not the ring of the true metal about it. Unaccustomed to deceive, she had played her part badly. She had given an excuse; but it was no excuse. In this Hinton was not blinded, even for a moment. His Charlotte! There, seemed a flaw in the perfect creature. His Charlotte had a second time turned away her confidence from him. Yes, here was the sting; in her trouble she would not let him comfort her. What was the matter? What was the mystery? What was the hidden wrong?

Hinton roused himself now. As thought and clearness of judgment came more vividly back to him, his anger grew and his pity lessened. His mind was brought to bear upon a secret, for there was a hidden secret. His remembrance travelled back to all that had happened since the day their marriage was fixed—since the day when he first saw a troubled look on Charlotte's face—and she had told him, though unwillingly, that queer story of Mrs. Home's. Yes, of course, he knew there was a mystery—a strange and dark mystery; like a coward he had turned away from investigating it. He had seen Uncle Jasper's nervous fear; he had seen Mrs. Home's poverty; he had witnessed Mr. Harman's ill-concealed disquietude—all this he had seen, all this he had known. But for Charlotte's sake, he had shut his eyes; Charlotte's sake he had forbidden his brain to think or his hands to work.—

And now—now—ah! light was dawning. Charlotte had fathomed what he had feared to look at. Charlotte had seen the dread reality. The secret was disgraceful. Nothing else could so have changed his one love. Nothing but disgrace, the disgrace of the one nearest to her, could bring that look to her face. Scarcely had he thought this before a memory came to him. He started to his feet as it came back. Charlotte had said, "Before our wedding-day I will read my grandfather's will." Suppose she had done so, and her grandfather's will had been—what? Hinton began to see reason now in her unaccountable determination not to see Webster. She had doubtless resolved on that very day to go to Somerset House and read that fatal document. Having made up her mind she would not swerve from her purpose. Then, though she was firm in her determination, her face had been bright, her brow unfurrowed, she had still been his own dear and happy Charlotte. He had not seen her again until she knew all. She knew all, and her heart and spirit were alike broken. As this fact became clear to Hinton, a sense of relief and peace came over him; he began once more to understand the woman he loved. Beside the darkness of misunderstanding her, all other misunderstandings seemed light. She was still his love, his life; she was still true to herself, to the beautiful ideal he had enthroned in his heart of hearts. Poor darling! she would suffer; but he must escape. Loving him as deeply, as devotedly as ever, she yet would give him up, rather than that he should share in the downfall of her house. Ah! she did not know him. She could be great; but so also could he. Charlotte should see that her love was no light thing for any man to relinquish: she would find that it weighed heavier in the balance than riches, than fame; that disgrace even could not crush it down. Knowing all, he would go to her; she should not be alone in her great, great trouble; she should find out in her hour of need the kind of man whose heart she had won. His depression left him as he came to this resolve, and he scarcely spent even an anxious night. On the next day, however, he did not go to Charlotte; but about noon he sat down and wrote her the following letter:—

MY DARLING:

You gave me up yesterday. I was—I don't mind telling you this now—stunned, surprised, pained. Since then, however, I have thought much; all my thought has been about you. Thought sometimes leads to light, and light has come to me. Charlotte, a contract entered into by two takes two to undo. I refuse to undo this contract. Charlotte, I refuse to give you up. You are my promised wife; our banns have been read twice in church already. Have you forgotten this? In the eyes of both God and man you are almost mine. To break off this engagement, unless I, too, wished it, would be, whatever your motive, a sin. Charlotte, the time has come, when we may ruin all the happiness of both our lives, unless very plain words pass between us. I use very plain words when I tell you that I most absolutely refuse to give you up. That being so, whatever your motive, you are committing a sin in refusing to give yourself to me. My darling, it is you I want, not your money—you—not—not—But I will add no more, except one thing. Charlotte, I went this morning to Somerset House, and I read your grandfather's will.

Now, what hour shall I come to you? Any hour you name I will fly to you. It is impossible for you to refuse what I demand as a right. But know that, if you do refuse, I will come notwithstanding.

Yours ever, JOHN HINTON.

This letter, being directed, was quickly posted, and in due time reached its address at Prince's Gate.

Then a strange thing happened to it. Jasper Harman, passing through the hall, saw the solitary letter waiting for his niece. It was his habit to examine every letter that came within his reach; he took up this one for no particular reason, but simply from the force of this long established habit. But having taken it in his hand, he knew the writing. The letter was from Hinton, and Charlotte had told him—had just told him—that her engagement with Hinton was broken off, that her wedding was not to be. Old Jasper was beset just now by a thousand fears, and Charlotte's manner and Charlotte's words had considerably added to his alarm. There was a mystery; Charlotte could not deny that fact. This letter might elucidate it—might throw light where so much was needed. Jasper Harman felt that the contents of Hinton's letter might do him good and ease his mind. Without giving himself an instant's time for reflection, he took the letter into the dining-room, and, opening it, read what was meant for another. He had scarcely done so before Charlotte unexpectedly entered the room. To save himself from discovery, when he heard her step, he dropped the letter into the fire. Thus Charlotte never got her lover's letter.

Hinton, bravely as he had spoken, was, nevertheless, pained at her silence. After waiting for twenty-four hours he, however, resolved to be true to his word. He had said to Charlotte, "If you refuse what I demand as a right, nevertheless I shall exercise my right. I will come to you." But he went with a strange sinking of heart, and when he got to Prince's Gate and was not admitted he scarcely felt surprised.



CHAPTER XLVI.

"THE WAY OF TRANSGRESSORS."

It is one of those everlasting truths, which experience and life teach us every day, that sin brings its own punishment, virtue its own reward: peace, the great divine reward of conscience to the virtuous; misery and despair, and that constant apprehension which dreads discovery, and yet which in itself is worse than discovery, to the transgressors.

"The way of transgressors is hard."

That Bible text was proving itself once more now in the cases of two old men. John Harman was sinking into his grave in anguish at the thought of facing an angry God: Jasper Harman was preparing to fly from what, alas! he dreaded more, the faces of his angry fellow-creatures.

Yes; it had come to this with Jasper Harman; England had become too hot to hold him; better fly while he could. Ever since the day Hinton had told him that he had really and in truth heard of the safe arrival of the other trustee, Jasper's days and nights had been like hell to him. In the morning, he had wondered would the evening find him still a free man; in the evening, he had trembled at what might befall him before the morning dawned. Unaccustomed to any mental anguish, his health began to give way; his heart beat irregularly, unevenly, he lost his appetite; at night he either had bad dreams or he could not sleep. This change began to tell upon his appearance; his hair grew thinner and whiter, he stooped as he walked, there was very little apparent difference now between him and John.

He could not bear the Harmans' house, for there he might meet Hinton. He dreaded his office in the City, for there the other trustee might follow him and publicly expose him. He liked his club best; but even there he felt scarcely safe, some one might get an inkling of the tale, there was no saying how soon such a story, so strange, so disgraceful, pertaining to so well-known a house as that of Harman Brothers, might get bruited about. Thus it came to pass that there was no place where this wretched old man felt safe; it became more and more clear to him day by day that England was too hot to hold him. All these growing feelings culminated in a sudden accession of terror on the day that Charlotte, with her strangely changed face, had asked him the truth with regard to her father's case, when, with the persistence of almost despair, she had insisted on knowing the very worst; then had quickly followed the announcement that her marriage had been broken off by herself; that it was postponed, her father thought, simply for the short remaining span of his own life; but Charlotte had taken little pains to conceal from Uncle Jasper that she now never meant to marry Hinton. What was the reason of it all? Jasper Harman, too, as well as Hinton, was not deceived by the reason given. There was something more behind. What was that something more?

In his terror and perplexity, Jasper opened Hinton's letter. One sentence in that letter, never meant for him, burnt into the unhappy man as the very fire of hell.

"I went this morning to Somerset House, and I read your grandfather's will."

Then Jasper's worst fears had come true; the discovery was made; the hidden sin brought to the light, the sinners would be dragged any moment to punishment.

Jasper must leave England that very night. Never again could he enter his brother's house. He must fly; he must fly at once and in secret, for it would never do to take any one into his confidence. Jasper Harman had a hard and evil heart; he was naturally cold and unloving; but he had one affection, he did care for his brother. In mortal terror as he was, he could not leave that dying brother without bidding him good-bye.

John Harman had not gone to the City that day, and when Charlotte left the room, Jasper, first glancing at the grate to make sure that Hinton's letter was all reduced to ashes, stole, in his usual soft and gliding fashion, to John's study. He was pleased to see his brother there, and alone.

"You are early back from the City, Jasper," said the elder brother.

"Yes; there was nothing to keep me this afternoon, so I did not stay."

The two old men exchanged a few more commonplaces. They were now standing by the hearth. Suddenly John Harman, uttering a half-suppressed groan, resumed his seat.

"It is odd," he said, "how the insidious something which men call Death seems to grow nearer to me day by day. Now, as we stood together, I felt just a touch of the cold hand; the touch was but a feather weight, but any instant it will come down like a giant on its prey. It is terrible to stand as I do, looking into the face of Death; I mean it is terrible for one like me."

"You are getting morbid, John," said Jasper; "you always were given to look on the dismals. If you must die, as I suppose and fear you must, why don't you rouse yourself and enjoy life while you may?"

To this John Harman made no answer. After a moment or two of silence, during which Jasper watched him nervously, he said;—

"As you have come back so early from the City, can you give me two hours now? I have a great deal I want to say to you."

"About the past?" questioned Jasper.

"About the past."

Jasper Harman paused and hesitated; he knew well that he should never see his brother again; that this was his last request. But dare he stay? Two hours were very precious, and the avenger might even now be at the door. No; he could not waste time so precious in listening to an old, old tale.

"Will two hours this evening do equally well, John?"

"Yes, if you prefer it. I generally give the evening to Charlotte; but this evening, if it suits you better."

"I will go now, then," said Jasper.

"Charlotte has told you of her resolve?"

"Yes, and I have spoken to her; but she is an obstinate minx."

"Do not call her so; it is because of her love for me. I am sorry that she will not marry at once; but it is not, after all, a long postponement and it is I own, a relief, not to have to conceal my state of health from her."

"It is useless arguing with a woman," said Jasper. "Well, good-bye, John."

"Good-bye," said the elder Harman, in some surprise that Jasper's hand was held out to him.

Jasper's keen eyes looked hard into John's for a moment. He wrung the thin hand and left the room. He had left for ever the one human being he loved, and even in his throat was a lump caused by something else than fear. But in the street and well outside that luxurious home, his love sank out of sight and his fear returned; he must get out of England that very night, and he had much to do.

He pulled out his watch. Yes, there was still time. Hailing a passing hansom he jumped into it, and drove to his bank. There, to the astonishment of the cashier, he drew all the money he kept there. This amounted to some thousands. Jasper buttoned the precious notes into a pocket-book. Then he went to his lodgings and began the task of tearing up letters and papers which he feared might betray him. Hitherto, all through his life he had kept these things precious; but now they all went, even to his mother's portrait and the few letters she had written to him when a boy at school. Even he sighed as he cast these treasures into the fire and watched them being reduced to ashes; but though they had gone with him from place to place in Australia, and he had hoped never to part from them, he must give them up now, for, innocent as they looked, they might appeal against him. He must give up all the past, name and all, for was he not flying from the avengers? flying because of his sin? Oh! surely the way of transgressors was hard!



CHAPTER XLVII.

CHARLOTTE HARMAN'S COMFORT.

Jasper Harman did not come to his brother's house that night, but about the time he might be expected to arrive there came a note from him instead. It was plausibly written, and gave a plausible excuse for his absence. He told John of sudden tidings with regard to some foreign business. These tidings were really true. Jasper said that a confidential clerk had gone to the foreign port where they dealt to inquire into this special matter, but that he thought it best, as the stakes at issue were large, to go also himself, to inquire personally. He would not be long away, &c. &c. He would write when to expect his return. It was a letter so cleverly put together, as to cause no alarm to any one. John Harman read it, folded it up, and told Charlotte that they need not expect Jasper in Prince's Gate for at least a week. The week passed, and though Jasper had neither come nor written, there was no anxiety felt on his account. In the mean time affairs had outwardly calmed down in Prince's Gate. The agitation, which had been felt even by the humblest servant in the establishment had ceased. Everything had returned to its accustomed groove. The nine days' wonder of that put off wedding had ceased to be a wonder. It still, it is true, gave zest to conversation in the servants' hall, but upstairs it was never mentioned. The even routine of daily life had resumed its sway, and things looked something as they did before, except that Mr. Harman grew to all eyes perceptibly weaker, that Charlotte was very grave and pale and quiet, that old Uncle Jasper was no longer in and out of the house, and that John Hinton never came near it. The luxurious house in Prince's Gate was unquestionably very dull; but otherwise no one could guess that there was anything specially amiss there.

On a certain morning, Charlotte got up, put on her walking things, and went out. She had not been out of doors for a week, and a sudden longing to be alone in the fresh outer world came over her too strongly to be rejected. She called a hansom and once more drove to her favorite Regent's Park. The park was now in all the full beauty and glory of its spring dress, and Charlotte sat down under the green and pleasant shade of a wide spreading oak-tree. She folded her hands in her lap and gazed straight before her. She had lived through one storm, but she knew that another was before her. The sky overhead was still gray and lowering; there was scarcely even peace in this brief lull in the tempest. In the first sudden fierceness of the storm she had acted nobly and bravely, but now that the excitement was past, there was coming to her a certain hardening of heart, and she was beginning to doubt the goodness of God. At first, most truly she had scarcely thought of herself at all, but it was impossible as the days went on for her not to make a moan over her own altered life. The path before her looked very dark, and Charlotte's feet had hitherto been unaccustomed to gloom. She was looking forward to the death, the inevitable and certainly approaching death of her father. That was bad, that was dreadful; but bad and dreadful as it would be to say good-bye to the old man, what must follow would be worse; however she might love him, however tenderly she might treat him, during his few remaining days or weeks of life, when all was over and he could return no more to receive men's praise or blame, then she must disgrace him, she must hold him up for the world's scorn. It would be impossible even to hope that the story would not be known, and once known it would heap dishonor on the old head she loved. For Charlotte, though she saw the sin, though the sin itself was most terrible and horrible to her, was still near enough to Christ in her nature to forgive the sinner. She had suffered; oh, how bitterly through this man! but none the less for this reason did she love him. But there was another cause for her heartache; and this was more personal. Hinton and she were parted. That was right. Any other course for her to have pursued would have been most distinctly wrong. But none the less did her heart ache and feel very sore; for how easily had Hinton acquiesced in her decision! She did not even know of his visit to the house. That letter, which would have been, whatever its result, like balm to her wounded spirit, had never reached her. Hinton was most plainly satisfied that they should meet no more. Doubtless it was best, doubtless in the end it would prove the least hard course; but none the less did hot tears fall now; none the less heavy was her heart. She was wiping away a tear or two, and thinking these very sad thoughts, when a clear little voice in her ear startled her.

"My pretty lady!" said the sweet voice, and looking round Charlotte saw little Harold Home standing by her side. Charlotte had not seen Harold since his illness. He had grown taller and thinner than of old, but his loving eyes were fixed on her face, and now his small brown hands beat impatiently upon her knees.

"Daisy and Angus are just round the corner," he whispered. "Let us play a game of hide and seek, shall we?"

He pulled her hand as he spoke, and Charlotte got up to humor him at once. They went quickly round to the other side of the great oak-tree, Harold sitting down on the grass pulled Charlotte to his side.

"Ah! don't speak," he said, and he put his arms round her neck.

She found the feel of the little arms strangely comforting, and when a moment or two afterwards the others discovered them and came close with peals of merry laughter, she yielded at once to Harold's eager request.

"May they go for a walk for half an hour, and may I stay with you, pretty lady?"

"Yes," she answered, stooping down to kiss him.

Anne promised to return at the right time, and Charlotte and Harold were alone. The boy, nestling close to her side, began to chatter confidentially.

"I'm so glad I came across you," he said; "you looked very dull when I came up, and it must be nice for you to have me to talk to, and 'tis very nice for me too, for I am fond of you."

"I am glad of that, Harold," said Charlotte.

"But I don't think you are quite such a pretty lady as you were," continued the boy, raising his eyes to her face and examining her critically. "Mr. Hinton and I used to think you were perfectly lovely! You were so bright—yes, bright is the word. Something like a dear pretty cherry, or like my little canary when he's singing his very, very best. But you ain't a bit like my canary to-day; you have no sing in you to-day; ain't you happy, my pretty lady?"

"I have had some trouble since I saw you last, Harold," said Charlotte.

"Dear, dear!" sighed Harold, "everybody seems to have lots of trouble. I wonder why. No; I don't think Mr. Hinton would think you pretty to-day. But," as a sudden thought and memory came over him—"I suppose you are married by this time? Aren't you married to my Mr. Hinton by this time?"

"No, dear," answered Charlotte.

"But why?" questioned the inquisitive boy.

"I am afraid I cannot tell you that, Harold."

Harold was silent for about half a minute. He was sitting down on the grass close to Charlotte, and his head was leaning against her shoulder. After a moment he continued with a sigh,—

"I guess he's very sorry. He and I used to talk about you so at night when I had the fever. I knew then he was fond of you, nearly as fond as I am myself."

"I am glad little Harold Home loves me," said Charlotte, soothed by the pretty boy's talk, and again she stooped down to kiss him.

"But everybody does," said the boy. "There's father and mother, and my Mr. Hinton and me, myself, and above all, the blessed Jesus."

A strange feeling, half pleasure, half surprise, came over Charlotte.

"How do you know about that last?" she whispered.

"Of course I know," replied Harold. "I know quite well. I heard father and mother say it; I heard them say it quite plainly one day; 'She's one of those blessed ones whom Jesus Christ loves very much.' Oh dear! I wish the children weren't back so dreadfully soon."

Yes, the children and Anne had returned, and Harold had to say good-bye, and Charlotte herself had to retrace her steps homewards. But her walk had not been for nothing, and there was a new peace, a new quiet, and a new hope in her heart. The fact was, she just simply, without doubt or difficulty, believed the child. Little Harold Home had brought her some news. The news was strange, new, and wonderful; she did not doubt it. Faithful, and therefore full of faith, was this simple and upright nature. There was no difficulty in her believing a fact. What Harold said was a fact. She was one of those whom Jesus loved. Straight did this troubled soul fly to the God of consolation. Her religion, from being a dead thing, began to live. She was not friendless, she was not alone, she had a friend who, knowing absolutely all, still loved. At that moment Charlotte Harman put her hand into the hand of Christ.



CHAPTER XLVIII.

THE CHILDREN'S ATTIC.

It was one thing for Alexander Wilson to agree to let matters alone for the present, and by so doing to oblige both Charlotte Home and Charlotte Harman, but it was quite another thing for him to see his niece, his own Daisy's child, suffering from poverty. Sandy had been accustomed to roughing it in the Australian bush. He had known what it was to go many hours without food, and when that food could be obtained it was most generally of the coarsest and commonest quality. He had known, too, what the cold of lying asleep in the open air meant. All that an ordinary man could endure had Sandy pulled through in his efforts to make a fortune. He had never grumbled at these hardships, they had passed over him lightly. He would, he considered, have been less than man to have complained. But nevertheless, when he entered the Home's house, and took possession of the poorly-furnished bedroom, and sat down day after day to the not too abundant meals; when he saw pretty little Daisy cry because her mother could not give her just what was most nourishing for her breakfast, and Harold, still pale and thin, having to do without the beef-tea which the doctor had ordered for him; when Sandy saw these things his heart waxed hot, and a great grumbling fit took possession of his kindly, genial soul. This grumbling fit reached its culminating point, when one day—mother, children, and maid all out—he stole up softly to the children's nursery. This small attic room, close to the roof, low, insufficiently ventilated, was altogether too much for Sandy. The time had come for him to act, and he was never the man to shirk action in any way. Charlotte Harman was all very well; that dying father of hers, whom he pronounced a most atrocious sinner, and took pleasure in so thinking him, he also was well enough, but everything could not give way to them. Though for the present Mr. Harman's money could not be touched for the Home's relief, yet Sandy's own purse was open, and that purse, he flattered himself, was somewhat comfortably lined. Yes, he must do something, and at once. Having examined with marked disgust the children's attic, he marched down the street. Tremins Road was long and narrow, but leading out of it was a row of fine new houses. These houses were about double the size of number ten, were nicely finished, and though many of them were already taken, two or three had boards up, announcing that they were still to let. Sandy saw the agent's name on the board, and went off straight to consult with him. The result of this consultation was that in half an hour he and the agent were all over the new house. Sandy went down to the basement, and thought himself particularly knowing in poking his nose into corners, in examining the construction of the kitchen-range, and expecting a copper for washing purposes to be put up in the scullery. Upstairs he selected a large and bright room, the windows of which commanded a peep of distant country. Here his pretty little Pet Daisy might play happily, and get back her rosy cheeks, and sleep well at night without coming downstairs heavy-eyed to breakfast. Finally he took the house on the spot, and ordered in paperers and painters for the following Monday.

He was asked if he would like to choose the papers. "Certainly," he replied, inwardly resolving that the nursery should be covered with pictures. He appointed an hour on Monday for his selections. This day was Saturday. He then went to the landlord of No. 10, Tremins Road, and made an arrangement for the remainder of the Homes' lease. This arrangement cost him some money, but he reflected again with satisfaction that his purse was well lined. So far he had conducted his plans without difficulty. But his next step was not so easy; without saying a word to either Charlotte or her husband, he had deprived them of one home, while providing them with another. No doubt the new home was vastly superior to the old. But still it came into his mind that they might consider his action in the light of a liberty; in short, that this very peculiar and unworldly couple might be capable of taking huff and might refuse to go at his bidding. Sandy set his wits to work over this problem, and finally he concocted a scheme. He must come round this pair by guile. He thought and thought, and in the evening when her husband was out he had a long talk with his niece. By a few judiciously chosen words he contrived to frighten Charlotte about her husband's health. He remarked that he looked ill, worn, very much older than his years. He said, with a sigh, that when a man like Home broke down he never got up again. He was undermining his constitution. When had he had a change?

"Never once since we were married," answered the wife with tears in her eyes.

Sandy shook his head very sadly and gravely over this, and after a moment of reflection brought out his scheme.

Easter was now over, there was no special press of parish work. Surely Homes' Rector would give him a holiday, and allow him to get away from Monday to Saturday night? Why not run away to Margate for those six days, and take his wife and three children with him? No, they need take no maid, for he, Uncle Sandy, having proposed this plan must be answerable for the expense. He would put them all up at a good hotel, and Anne could stay at home to take care of him. Of course to this scheme there were many objections raised. But, finally, the old Australian overruled them each and all. The short leave was granted by the Rector. The rooms at the hotel which commanded the best sea-view were taken by Sandy, and the Homes left 10 Tremins Road, little guessing that they were not to return there. When he had seen father, mother, and three happy little children off by an early train, Sandy returned quickly to Tremins Road. There he called Anne to him, and unfolded to the trembling and astonished girl his scheme.

"We have to be in the new house as snug as snug by Saturday night, my girl," he said in conclusion. "We have to bring away what is worth moving of this furniture, and it must all be clean and fresh, for a clean new house. And, look here, Anne, you can't do all the work; do you happen to know of a good, hard-working girl, who would come and help you, and stay altogether if Mrs. Home happened to like her, just a second like yourself, my lass?"

"Oh, please, sir, please, sir," answered Anne, "there's my own sister, she's older nor me, and more knowing. She's real 'andy, and please, sir, she'd like it real awful well."

"Engage her by all means," said Wilson, "go at once for her. See; where does she live? I will pay the cab fare."