"Oh, was anything so exactly like the Family Herald," thought Anne as she drove away.

Uncle Sandy then went to a large West End furniture shop, and chose some sensible and nice furniture. The drawing-room alone he left untouched, for he could not pretend to understand how such a room should be rigged out—that must be Charlotte's province. But the nice large dining-room, the bedrooms, the stairs and hall, were made as sweet and gay and pretty as the West End shopman, who had good taste and to whom Uncle Sandy gave carte blanche, could devise. Finally, on Saturday, he went to a florist's and from there filled the windows with flowers, and Anne had orders to abundantly supply the larder and store-room; and now at last, directions being given for tea, the old man went off to meet his niece, her husband and her children, to conduct them to their new home.

"Oh, we did have such a time," said Harold, as, brown as a berry, he looked up at his old great-uncle. "Didn't we, Daisy?" he added, appealing to his small sister, who clung to his hand.

"Ess, but we 'onted 'oo, Uncle 'Andy," said the small thing, looking audaciously into his face, which she well knew this speech would please.

"You're just a dear, little, darling duck," said Sandy, taking her in his arms and giving her a squeeze. But even Daisy could not quite monopolize him at this moment. All the success of his scheme depended on the next half-hour, and as they all drove back to Kentish Town, Sandy on the box-seat of the cab, and the father, mother, and three children inside, his heart beat so loud and hard, that he had to quiet it with some sharp inward admonitions.

"Sandy Wilson, you old fool!" he said to himself more than once; "you have not been through the hardships of the Australian bush to be afraid of a moment like this. Keep yourself quiet; I'm ashamed of you."

At last they drew up at the address Sandy had privately given. How beautiful the new house looked! The hall door stood open, and Anne's smiling face was seen on the threshold. The children raised a shout at sight of her and the flowers, which were so gay in the windows. Mr. Home in a puzzled kind of way was putting out his head to tell the cabby that he had made a mistake, and that he must just turn the corner. Charlotte was feeling a queer little sensation of surprise, when Uncle Sandy, with a face almost purple with emotion, flung open the door of the cab, took Daisy in his arms, and mounting her with an easy swing on to his shoulder said to Charlotte,—

"Welcome, in the name of your dear, dead mother, Daisy Wilson, to your new home, Niece Lottie."

The children raised a fresh shout.

"Oh, come, Daisy," said Harold; she struggled to the ground and the two rushed in. Anne came down and took the baby, and Mr. and Mrs. Home had no help for it but to follow in a blind kind of way. Uncle Sandy pushed his niece down into one of the hall chairs.

"There!" he said; "don't, for Heaven's sake, you two unpractical, unworldly people, begin to be angry with me. That place in Tremins Road was fairly breaking my heart, and I could not stand it, and 'tis—well—I do believe 'tis let, and you can't go back to it, and this house is yours, Niece Charlotte, and the furniture. As to the rent, I'll be answerable for that, and you won't refuse your own mother's brother. The fact was, that attic where the children slept was too much for me, so I had to do something. Forgive me if I practised a little bit of deception on you both. Now, I'm off to an hotel to-night, but to-morrow, if you're not too angry with your mother's brother, I'm coming back for good. Kept a fine room for myself, I can tell you. Anne shall show it to you. Trust Sandy Wilson to see to his own comforts. Now good-bye, and God bless you both."

Away he rushed before either of the astonished pair had time to get in a word.

"But I do think they'll forgive the liberty the old man took with them," were his last waking thoughts as he closed his eyes that night.



CHAPTER XLIX.

HE WEPT.

Mr. Harman was beginning to take the outward circumstances of his life with great quietness. What, three months before, would have caused both trouble and distress, now, was received with equanimity. The fact was, he felt himself day by day getting so near eternity, that the things of time, always so disproportionately large to our worldly minds, were assuming to him their true proportions.

John Harman was being led by a dark road of terrible mental suffering to his God; already he was drawing near, and the shadow of that forgiveness which would yet encircle him in its perfect rest and peace was at hand.

Days, and even weeks, went by, and there was no news of Jasper. John Harman would once have been sorely perplexed, but now he received the fact of his brothers absence with a strange quietness, even apathy. Charlotte's postponed marriage, a little time back, would have also fretted him, but believing surely that she would be happy after his death, he did not now trouble; and he could not help owning to himself that the presence of his dearly loved daughter was a comfort too great to be lightly dispensed with. He was too much absorbed with himself to notice the strangeness of Hinton's absence, and he did not perceive, as he otherwise would have done, that Charlotte's face was growing thin and pale, and that there was a subdued, almost crushed manner about the hitherto spirited creature, which not even his present state of health could altogether account for.

Yes, John Harman lived his self-absorbed life, going day by day a little further into the valley of the shadow of death. The valley he was entering looked very dark indeed to the old man, for the sin of his youth was still unforgiven, and he could not see even a glimpse of the Good Shepherd's rod and staff. Still he was searching day and night for some road of peace and forgiveness; he wanted the Redeemer of all the world to lay His hand upon his bowed old head. The mistake he was still making was this—he would not take God's way of peace, he must find his own.

One evening, after Charlotte had left him, he sat for a long time in his study lost in thought. After a time he rose and took down once more from the shelf the Bible which he had opened some time before; then it had given him the reverse of comfort, and he scarcely, as he removed it from the place where he had pushed it far back out of sight, knew why he again touched it. He did, however, take it in his hand, and return with it to his chair. He drew the chair up to the table and laid the old Bible upon it. He opened it haphazard; he was not a man who had ever studied or loved the Bible; he was not acquainted with all its contents and the story on which his eyes rested came almost with the freshness of novelty.

"Two men went up into the Temple to pray; the one a Pharisee, and the other a publican.

"The publican would not lift up so much as his eyes unto heaven, but smote upon his breast, saying, God be merciful to me, a sinner.

"I tell you, this man went down to his house justified rather than the other."

John Harman read the story twice.

"This man went down to his house justified rather than the other."

The other! he fasted, and gave alms, and thanked God that he was not as this publican—this publican, who was a sinner.

But the Bible words were clear enough and plain enough. He, the sinner, was justified.

John Harman covered his face with his hands. Suddenly he fell on his knees.

"God be merciful to me a sinner," he said.

He said the few words twice aloud, in great anguish of spirit, and as he prayed he wept.

Afterwards he turned over the Bible pages again. This time he read the story of Zacchaeus.

"If I have taken anything from any man, I restore him fourfold."

It was very late when Mr. Harman at last went to bed, but he slept better that night than he had done for years. He was beginning to see the possible end.



CHAPTER L.

HOME'S SERMON.

It was impossible for the Homes to refuse Uncle Sandy's kindness. Their natural pride and independence of character could not stand in the way of so graciously and gracefully offered a gift. When the old man came to see them the next day, he was received with all the love and gratitude he deserved. If he could give well, Charlotte and her husband knew how to receive well. He now told his niece plainly that he had come to pass the remainder of his days with her and hers; and father, mother, and children welcomed him with delight.

Charlotte was now a very happy woman. The new and pretty house was delightful to her. She began to understand what it was not to have to look twice at a pound, for Uncle Sandy's purse was for ever at her command. When she went with her old uncle to choose the furniture for the new drawing room, she laughed so merrily and seemed so gay that Uncle Sandy informed her that she had already lost five years of her age. Harold and Daisy used to look into her face at this time, and say to one another, "Isn't our mother pretty?" For, indeed, the peace in her heart, and the little unexpected glow of worldly prosperity which had come into her life, had wonderfully softened and beautified her face. Her eyes, when she looked at her children's blooming faces, were often bright as stars. At all times now they were serene and happy. She had one little cross, however, one small shadow in her happy time. She wanted to be much—daily, if possible—with Charlotte Harman. Her heart yearned over Charlotte, and she would have almost neglected her children to give her one ray of comfort just now. But Charlotte herself had forbidden this daily intercourse.

"I love you, Charlotte," she had said, "and I know that you love me. But at present we must not meet. I cannot leave my father to go to see you, and you must not come here, for I cannot risk the chance of seeing you. He may question me, and I shall not be able to answer his questions. No, Charlotte, we must not meet."

Charlotte Home felt much regret at this. Failing Charlotte Harman, she turned her attention to Hinton. She was fully resolved that no stone should remain unturned by her to enable those two yet to marry, and she thought she might best effect her object by seeing the young man. She wrote to him, asking him to call, telling him that she had much of importance to tell him; but both from his private address and also from his chambers the letters were, in due course of time, returned. Hinton was not in town, and had left no clue to his whereabouts. Thus she was cut off from helping, in any way, those who were in great darkness, and this fact was an undoubted sorrow to her. Yes, Mrs. Home was full of pity for Charlotte, full of pity for Charlotte's lover. But it is to be feared that both she and Uncle Sandy retained a strong sense of indignation towards the one who had caused the anguish—towards the one, therefore, on whom the heaviest share of the punishment fell. Very terrible was it for Charlotte, very terrible for Hinton. But were they asked to tell their true feeling towards old John Harman, they might have whispered, "Serve him right." There was one, however, besides his daughter, whose warmest sympathies, whose most earnest and passionate prayers were beginning day by day and night by night, to centre more and more round the suffering and guilty man, and that one was the curate, Home. Angus Home had never seen John Harman, but his sin and his condition were ever before him. He was a dying man, and—he was a sinner. With strong tears and lamentation did this man cry to God for his fellow man. His tears and his prayers brought love for the sinner. Angus Home would have gladly died to bring John Harman back to God.

One Saturday night he sat up late over his sermon. He was not an eloquent preacher, but so earnest was his nature, so intense his realization of God's love and of the things unseen, that it was impossible for his words not to be winged with the rare power of earnestness. He was neither gifted with language nor with imagination; but he could tell plain truths in such a way that his hearers often trembled as they listened. At such times he looked like an avenging angel. For the man, when he felt called on to rebuke sin, was very jealous for his God. Then, again, he could whisper comfort; he could bring down Heaven, and looked, when he spoke of the land which is very far off, as though even now, and even here, his eyes were seeing the King in His beauty. Nevertheless, so little was that real power of his understood, so much better were empty words gracefully strung together preferred, that Home was seldom asked to preach in the large parish church. His congregation were generally the very poorest of his flock. These very poor folks learned to love their pastor, and for them he would very gladly spend and be spent. He was to preach to-morrow in a small iron building to these poor people. He now sat up late to prepare his sermon. He found himself, however, sadly out of tune for this work. He took his Bible in hand and turned page after page; he could find no suitable text; he could fix his attention on no particular line of argument. He unlocked a drawer, and took from thence a pile of old sermons; should he use one of these? He looked through and through his store. None pleased, none satisfied him. Finally, overcome by a sudden feeling, he forgot his sermon of to-morrow. He pushed his manuscripts aside, and fell on his knees. He was in terror about the soul of John Harman, and he prayed for him in groans that seemed almost as though they must rend the heavens in their pleadings for a reply. "Lord, spare the man. Lord, hear me; hear me when I plead with Thee. It was for sinners such as he Thou didst die. Oh, spare! oh, save!—save this great sinner. Give me his soul, Lord. Lord, give me his soul to bring to Thee in Heaven." He went up to bed in the early hours of the May morning quite exhausted. He had absolutely forgotten his sermon. He had not prepared a word for his congregation for the next day. Before he went to church he remembered this. There was no help for it now. He could but put two of his already prepared sermons in his pocket and set out. He was to read the service as well as to preach the sermon. There were about sixty poor people present. Charlotte and the children went to the parish church. There was not a really well-dressed person in all his congregation. He had just finished reading the Absolution when a slight stir near the door attracted his attention. He raised his eyes to see the verger leading up the centre aisle an old man with bowed head and silver hair, accompanied by a young woman. The young woman Home recognized at a glance. She was Charlotte Harman; the old man then was her father. He did not ask himself why they had come here or how, but instantly he said to his own heart, with a great throb of ecstatic joy, "God has heard my prayer; that soul is to be mine." When he mounted the pulpit stairs he had absolutely forgotten his written sermons. For the first time he stood before his congregation without any outward aid of written words, or even notes. He certainly did not need them, for his heart was full. Out of that heart, burning with love so intense as to be almost divine, he spoke. I don't think he used any text, but he told from beginning to end the old, old tale of the Prodigal Son. He told it as, it seemed to his congregation, that wonderful story had never been told since the Redeemer Himself had first uttered the words. He described the far country, the country where God was not; and the people were afraid and could scarcely draw their breath. Then he told of the Father's forgiveness and the Father's welcome home; and the congregation, men and women alike, hid their faces and wept. Added to his earnestness God had given to him the great gift of eloquence to-day. The people said afterwards they scarcely knew their pastor. There was not a dry eye in his church that morning.



CHAPTER LI.

A SINNER.

Home went back to his new and pretty house and sat down with his wife and children, and waited. He would not even tell Charlotte of these unlooked-for additions to his small congregation. When she asked him if he had got on well, if his sermon had been a difficulty, he had answered, with a light in his eyes, that God had been with him. After this the wife only took his hand and pressed it. She need question no further: but even she wondered at the happy look on his face.

He had two more services for that day, and also schools to attend, and through all his duties, which seemed to come without effort or annoyance, he still waited. He knew as well as if an angel had told him that he should see more of Mr. Harman. Had he been less assured of this he would have taken some steps himself to secure a meeting; he would have gone to the daughter, he would have done he knew not what. But having this firm assurance, he did not take any steps; he believed what God wished him to do was quietly to wait.

When he went out on Monday morning he left word with his wife where he might be found without trouble or delay, if wanted.

"Is any one ill in the congregation?" she inquired.

"Some one is ill, but not in the congregation," he answered.

He came home, however, late on Monday night, to find that no one had sent, no one in particular had inquired for him. Still his faith was not at all shaken; he still knew that Harman's soul was to be given to him, and believing that he would like to see him, he felt that he should yet be summoned to his side.

On Tuesday morning prayers were to be read in the little iron church. Never full even on Sundays, this one weekday service was very miserably attended. Home did not often take it, the duty generally devolving on the youngest curate in the place. He was hurrying past to-day, having many sick and poor to attend to, when he met young Davenport—a curate only just ordained.

"I am glad I met you," said the young man, coming up at once and addressing the older clergyman with a troubled face. "There would not have been time to have gone round to your place. See, I have had a telegram; my father is ill. I want to catch a train at twelve o'clock to go and see him; I cannot if I take this service. Will it be possible for you to do the duty this morning?"

"Perfectly possible," answered Home heartily. "Go off at once, my dear fellow; I will see to things for you until you return."

The young man was duly grateful, and hurried away at once, and Home entered the little building. The moment he did so he saw the reason of it all. Mr. Harman was in the church; he was in the church and alone. His daughter was not with him. There was no sermon that day, and the short morning prayers were quickly over. The half-dozen poor who had come in went out again; but Mr. Harman did not stir. Home took off his surplice, and hurried down the church. He meant now to speak to Mr. Harman, if Mr. Harman did not speak to him; but he saw that he would speak. As he approached the pew the white-headed old man rose slowly and came to meet him.

"Sir, I should like to say a few words to you."

"As many as you please, my dear sir; I am quite at your service."

Home now entered the pew and sat down.

"Shall we talk here or in the vestry?" he inquired, after a moment's silence.

"I thought perhaps you would come to my house later on," said Mr. Harman. "I have a long story to tell you; I can tell it best at home. I am very ill, or I would come to you. May I expect you this evening?"

"I will certainly come," answered Home. "What is your address?"

Mr. Harman gave it. Then, after a pause, he added—

"I seek you as a minister."

"And I come to you as a servant of God," replied the curate, now fixing his eyes on his companion.

Mr. Harman's gaze did not quail before that steady look. With an unutterable sadness he returned it fully. Then he said,

"I came here on Sunday."

"I saw you," answered Home.

"Ah! can it be possible that you preached to me?"

"To you, if you think so. I spoke to every sinner in the congregation."

"You spoke of a land where God is not; you described the terrible country well."

"An arid land?" answered Home.

"Ay, a thirsty land."

"Those that find it so generally find also that they are being led back to a land where God is."

"You believe, then, in the forgiveness of sin?"

"If I did not I should go mad."

"My good sir, you are not much of a sinner."

"I am a sinner, sir; and if I were not—if I dared to lift up my eyes to a holy, a righteous God, and say, 'I am pure'—I yet, if I did not believe as fully as I am now sitting by your side in the perfect forgiveness of sin, I yet should go mad; for I have seen other men's sins and other men's despair; I should lose my reason for their sakes, if not for my own."

"Should you, indeed? You see now before you a despairing man and a dying man."

"And a sinner?" questioned Home.

"Ay, ay, God knows, a sinner."

"Then I see also before me a man whose despair can be changed to peace, and his sin forgiven. What hour shall I call upon you this evening?"

Mr. Harman named the hour. Then he rose feebly; Home gave him his arm and conducted him to his carriage; afterwards he re-entered the church to pray.



CHAPTER LII.

A HIDDEN SIN.

Nine o' clock in the evening was the hour named by Mr. Harman, and punctually at that hour Home arrived at Prince's Gate. He was a man who had never been known to be late for an appointment; for in little things even, this singular man was faithful to the very letter of the trust. This nice observance of his passed word, in a great measure counteracted his otherwise unpractical nature. Home was known by all his acquaintances to be a most dependable man.

Mr. Harman had told Charlotte that he was expecting a friend to visit him. He said he should like to see that friend alone; but, contrary to his wont, he did not mention his name. This cannot be wondered at, for Mr. Harman knew of no connection between the Homes and Charlotte. He had chosen this man of God, above his fellow-men, because he had been haunted and impressed by his sermon, but he scarcely himself even knew his name. It so happened, however, that Charlotte saw Mr. Home entering her father's study. It is not too much to say that the sight nearly took her breath away, and that she felt very considerable disquietude.

"Sit here," said Mr. Harman to his guest.

The room had been comfortably prepared, and when Home entered Mr. Harman got up and locked the door; then, sitting down opposite to Home, and leaning a little forward, he began at once without preface or preamble.

"I want to tell you without reservation the story of my life."

"I have come to listen," answered Home.

"It is the story of a sin."

Home bent his head.

"It is the story of a successfully hidden sin—a sin hidden from all the world for three and twenty years."

"A crushing weight such a sin must have been," answered the clergyman. "But will you just tell me all from the beginning?"

"I will tell you all from the beginning. A hidden sin is, as you say, heavy enough to crush a man into hell. But I will make no more preface. Sir, I had the misfortune to lose a very noble mother when I was young. When I was ten years old, and my brother (I have one brother) was eight, our mother died! We were but children, you will say; but I don't, even now that I am a dying, sinful old man, forget my mother. She taught us to pray and to shun sin. She also surrounded us with such high and holy thoughts—she so gave us the perfection of all pure mother love, that we must have been less than human not to be good boys during her lifetime. I remember even now the look in her eyes when I refused on any childish occasion to follow the good, and then chose the evil. I have a daughter—one beloved daughter, something like my mother. I have seen the same high and honorable light in her eyes, but never since in any others. Well, my mother died, and Jasper and I had only her memory to keep us right. We used to talk about her often, and often fretted for her as, I suppose, few little boys before or since have fretted for a mother. After her death we were sent to school. Our father even then was a rich man: he was a self-made man; he started a business in a small way in the City, but small beginnings often make great endings, and the little business grew, and grew, and success and wealth came almost without effort. Jasper and I never knew what poverty meant. I loved learning better than my brother did, and at the age of eighteen, when Jasper went into our father's business, I was sent to Oxford. At twenty-two I had taken my degree, and done so, not perhaps brilliantly, but with some honor. Any profession was now open to me, and my father gave me full permission to choose any walk in life I chose; at the same time he made a proposal. He was no longer so young as he had been; he had made his fortune; he believed that Jasper's aptitude for business excelled his own. If we would become partners in the firm which he had made, and which was already rising into considerable eminence, he would retire altogether. We young men should work the business in our own way. He was confident we should rise to immense wealth. While making this proposal our father said that he would not give up his business to Jasper alone. If both his sons accepted it, then he would be willing to retire, taking with him a considerable sum of money, but still leaving affairs both unencumbered and flourishing. 'You are my heirs eventually.' he said to us both; 'and now I give you a week to decide.' At the end of the allotted time we accepted the offer. This was principally Jasper's doing, for at that time I knew nothing of business, and had thought of a profession. Afterwards I liked the counting-house, and became as absorbed as others in the all-engrossing accumulation of wealth. Our father had taken a very large sum of money out of the business, and it was impossible for us not to feel for a time a considerable strain; but Jasper's skill and talent were simply wonderful, and success attended all our efforts.

"Two years after I joined the business, I married my Charlotte's mother. I was a wealthy man even then. Though of no birth in particular, I was considered gentlemanly. I had acquired that outward polish which a university education gives; I was also good-looking. With my money, good looks, and education, I was considered a match for the proud and very poor daughter of an old Irish baronet. She had no money; she had nothing but her beautiful face, her high and honorable spirit, her blue blood. You will say, 'Enough!' Ay, it was more than enough. She made me the best, the truest of wives. I never loved another woman. She was a little bit extravagant. She had never known wealth until she became my wife, and wealth, in the most innocent way in the world, was delightful to her. While Jasper saved, I was tempted to live largely. I took an expensive house—there was no earthly good thing I would not have given to her. She loved me; but, as I said, she was proud. Pride in birth and position was perhaps her only fault. I was perfect in her eyes, but she took a dislike to Jasper. This I could have borne, but it pained me when I saw her turning away from my old father. I dearly loved and respected my father, and I wanted Constance to love him, but she never could be got to care for him. It was at that time, that that thing happened which was the beginning of all the after darkness and misery.

"My father, finding my proud young wife not exactly to his taste, came less and less to our house. Finally, he bought an old estate in Hertfordshire, and then one day the news reached us that he had engaged himself to a very young girl, and that he would marry at once. There was nothing wrong in this marriage, but Jasper and I chose to consider it a sin. We had never forgotten our mother, and we thought it a dishonor to her. We forgot our father's loneliness. In short, we were unreasonable and behaved as unreasonably as unreasonable men will on such occasions. Hot and angry words passed between our father and ourselves. We neither liked our father's marriage nor his choice. Of course, we were scarcely likely to turn the old man from his purpose, but we refused to have anything to do with his young wife. Under such circumstances we had an open quarrel. Our father married, and we did not see him for years. I was unhappy at this, for I loved my father. Before his second marriage, he always spent from Saturday to Monday at our house, and though my own wife not caring for him greatly marred our pleasure, yet now that the visits had absolutely ceased I missed them—I missed the gray head and the shrewd, old, kindly face; and often, very often, I almost resolved to run down into Hertfordshire and make up my quarrel. I did not do so, however; and as the years went on, I grew afraid to mention my father's name to either my wife or brother. Jasper and I were at this time deeply absorbed in speculation; our business was growing and growing; each thing we embarked in turned out well; we were beginning quite to recover from the strain which our father's removal of so large a sum of money had caused. Jasper was a better man of business than I was. Jasper, though the junior partner, took the lead in all plans. He proposed that an Australian branch of our business should be opened. It was done, and succeeded well.

"About this time we heard that a little son had arrived at the Hermitage in Hertfordshire. He did not live long. We saw his birth announced in The Times. It may have been some months later, though, looking back on it, it seems but a few days, that the birth was followed by the death. A year or two passed away, and my wife and I were made happy by the arrival of our first child. The child was a daughter. We called her Charlotte, after my much-loved mother. Time went on, until one day a telegram was put into my hand summoning my brother and myself to our father's deathbed. The telegram was sent by the young wife. I rushed off at once; Jasper followed by the next train.

"The hale old man had broken up very suddenly at last, and the doctor said he had but a few days to live. During those few days, Jasper and I scarcely left his bedside; we were reconciled fully and completely, and he died at last murmuring my own mother's name and holding our hands.

"It was during this visit that I saw the little wife for the first time. She was a commonplace little thing, but pretty and very young; it was impossible to dislike the gentle creature. She was overpowered with grief at her husband's death. It was impossible not to be kind to her, not to comfort her. There was one child, a girl of about the age of my own little Charlotte. This child had also been named Charlotte. She was a pale, dark-eyed child, with a certain strange look of my mother about her. She was not a particle like her own. My father loved this little creature, and several times during those last days of his he spoke of her to me.

"'I have called her after your own mother,' he said. 'I love my second wife; but the Charlotte of my youth can never be forgotten. I have called the child Charlotte; you have called your daughter Charlotte. Good! let the two be friends.'

"I promised readily enough, and I felt pity and interest for the little forlorn creature. I also, as I said, intended to be good to the mother, who seemed to me to be incapable of standing alone.

"Immediately after my father's death and before the funeral, I was summoned hastily to town. My wife was dangerously ill. A little dead baby had come into the world, and for a time her life was despaired of; eventually she got better; but for the next few days I lived and thought only for her. I turned over all business cares to Jasper. I was unable even to attend our father's funeral. I never day or night left Constance's bedside. I loved this woman most devotedly, most passionately. During all those days when her life hung in the balance, my time seemed one long prayer to God. 'Spare her, spare her precious life at any cost, at any cost.' Those were the words, forever on my lips. The prayer was heard; I had my wife again. For a short time she was restored to me. I have often thought since, was even that precious life worth the price I paid for it?"

Here Mr. Harman paused. Some moisture had gathered on his brow; he took out his handkerchief to wipe it away. A glass of water stood by his side; he drank a little.

"I am approaching the sin," he said addressing the clergyman. "The successfully buried sin is about to rise from its grave; pardon me if I shrink from the awful sight."

"God will strengthen you, my dear sir," answered Home. "By your confession, you are struggling back into the right path. What do I say? Rather you are being led back by God himself. Take courage. Lean upon the Almighty arm. Your sin will shrink in dimensions as you view it; for between you and it will come forgiveness."

Mr. Harman smiled faintly, After another short pause, he continued.

"On the day on which my dear wife was pronounced out of danger, Jasper sent for me. My brother and I had ever been friends, though in no one particular were we alike. During the awful struggle through which I had just passed. I forgot both him and my father. Now I remembered him and my father's death, and our own business cares. A thousand memories came back to me. When he sent for me I left my wife's bedside and went down to him. I was feeling weak and low, for I had not been in bed for many nights, and a kind of reaction had set in. I was in a kind of state when a man's nerves can be shaken, and his whole moral equilibrium upset. I do not offer this as an excuse for what followed. There is no excuse for the dark sin; but I do believe enough about myself to say that what I then yielded to, I should have been proof against at a stronger physical moment. I entered my private sitting-room to find Jasper pacing up and down like a wild creature. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair tossed. He was a calm and cheerful person generally. At this instant, he looked like one half bereft of reason. 'Good heavens! what is wrong?' I said. I was startled out of myself by his state of perturbation.

"'We are ruined; that is what is wrong,' answered Jasper.

"He then entered into particulars with which I need not trouble you. A great house, one of the greatest and largest houses in the City, had come to absolute grief; it was bankrupt. In its fall many other houses, ours amongst them, must sink.

"I saw it all quite plainly. I sat down quiet and stunned; while Jasper raved and swore and paced up and down the room, I sat still. Yes we were, beggars, nothing could save the house which our father had made with such pride and care.

"After a time I left Jasper and returned to my wife's room. On the way I entered the nursery and paid my pretty little Charlotte a visit. She climbed on my knee and kissed me, and all the time I kept saying to myself, 'The child is a beggar, I can give her no comforts; we are absolutely in want.' It was the beginning of the winter then, and the weather was bitterly cold. The doctor met me on the threshold of my wife's room; he said to me, 'As soon as ever she is better, you must either take or send her out of England. She may recover abroad; but to winter in this climate, in her present state, would certainly kill her.' How bitter I felt; for was I not a beggar? How could I take my wife away? I sat down again in the darkened room and thought over the past. Hitherto the wealth, which was so easily won, seemed of comparatively small importance. It was easy with a full purse to wish, then to obtain. I had often wondered at Constance's love for all the pretty things with which I delighted to surround her, her almost childish pleasure in the riches which had come to her. She always said to me at such times:

"'But I have known such poverty; I hate poverty, and I love, I love the pretty things of life.'

"This very night, as I sat by her bedside, she opened her lovely eyes and looked at me and said:

"'John, I have had such a dream so vivid, so, so terrible. I thought we were poor again—poorer than I ever was even with my father; so poor, John, that I was hungry, and you could give me nothing to eat. I begged you to give me food. There was a loaf in a shop window, such a nice crisp loaf; and I was starving. When you said you had no money, I begged of you to steal that loaf. You would not, you would not, and at last I lay down to die. Oh! John, say it was a dream.'

"'Of course it was only a dream, my darling!' I answered, and I kissed her and soothed her, though all the time my heart felt like lead.

"That evening Jasper sent for me again. His manner now was changed. The wildness and despair had left it. He was his old, cool, collected self. He was in the sort of mood when he always had an ascendency over me—the sort of mood when he showed that wonderful business faculty for which I could not but admire him.

"'Sit down, John,' he said, 'I have a great deal to say to you. There is a plan in my head. If you will agree to act with me in it, we may yet be saved.'

"Thinking of my Constance lying so ill upstairs, my heart leaped up at these words.

"'What is your plan?' I said. 'I can stay with you for some time. I can listen as long as you like.'

"'You hate poverty?' said Jasper.

"'Yes,' I said, thinking of Constance, 'I hate it.'

"'If you will consent to my scheme; if you will consent before you leave this room, we need not sink with Cooper, Cooper and Bennett.'

"'I will listen to you,' I said.

"'You have always been so absorbed lately in your wife,' continued Jasper, 'that you have, I really believe, forgotten our father's death: his funeral was last Thursday. Of course you could not attend it. After the funeral I read the will.'

"'Yes,' I said, 'I had really forgotten my father's will. He left us money?' I said. 'I am glad; it will keep us from absolute want. Constance need not be hungry after all.'

"My brother looked at me.

"'A little money has been left to us,' he said, 'but so little that it must go with the rest. In the general crash those few thousands must also go. John, you remember when our father took that very large sum out of the business, he promised that we should be his heirs. It was a loan for his lifetime.'

"'He had not married then,' I said.

"'No,' answered Jasper, 'he had not married. Now that he has married he has forgotten all but this second wife. He has left her, with the exception of a few thousands, the whole of that fine property. In short, he has left her a sum of money which is to realize an income of twelve hundred a year.'

"'Yes,' I said, wearily.

"Jasper looked at me very hard. I returned his gaze.

"'That money, if left to us, would save the firm. Quite absolutely save the firm in this present crisis,' he said, slowly and emphatically.

"'Yes,' I said again. I was so innocent, so far from what I since became, at that moment, that I did not in the least understand my brother. 'The money is not ours,' I said, seeing that his eyes were still fixed on me with a greedy intense light.

"'If my father were alive now,' said Jasper, rising to his feet and coming to my side, 'if my father were alive now, he would break his heart, to see the business which he made with such pride and skill, come to absolute grief. If my father were still alive; if that crash had come but a fortnight ago, he would say, 'Save the firm at any cost.'

"'But he is dead,' I said, 'we cannot save the firm. What do you mean, Jasper? I confess I cannot see to what you are driving.'

"'John,' said my brother, 'you are stupid. If our father could speak to us now, he would say, 'Take the money, all the money I have left, and save the firm of Harman Brothers.'

"'You mean,' I said, 'you mean that we—we are to steal that money, the money left to the widow, and the fatherless?'

"I understood the meaning now. I staggered to my feet. I could have felled my brother to the ground. He was my brother, my only brother; but at that moment, so true were my heart's instincts to the good and right, that I loathed him. Before however, I could say a word, or utter a reproach, a message came to me from my wife. I was wanted in my wife's room instantly, she was excited, she was worse. I flew away without a word.

"'Come back again, I will wait for you here,' called after me my brother.

"I entered Constance's room. I think she was a little delirious. She was still talking about money, about being hungry and having no money to buy bread. Perhaps a presentiment of the evil news had come to her. I had to soothe, to assure her that all she desired should be hers. I even took my purse out and put it into her burning hand. At last she believed me; she fell asleep with her hand in mine. I dared not stir from her; and all the time as I sat far into the night, I thought over Jasper's words. They were terrible words, but I could not get them out of my head, they were burning like fire into my brain. At last Constance awoke; she was better, and I could leave her. It was now almost morning. I went to my study, for I could not sleep. To my surprise, Jasper was still there. It was six hours since I had left him, but he had not stirred.

"'John,' he said, seeing that I shrank from him, 'you must hear me out. Call my plan by as ugly a name as you like, no other plan will save the firm. John, will you hear me speak?'

"'Yes, I will hear you,' I said. I sank down on the sofa. My head was reeling. Right and wrong seemed confused. I said to myself, My brain is so confused with grief and perplexity that it is no matter what Jasper says just now, for I shall not understand him. But I found to my surprise, almost to my horror, that I understood with startling clearness every word. This was Jasper's plan. There were three trustees to the will; I was one, my brother Jasper another, a third was a man by the name of Alexander Wilson. He was brother to my father's second wife. This Alexander Wilson I had never seen. Jasper had seen him once. He described him to me as a tall and powerful man with red hair. 'He is the other trustee,' said my brother, 'and he is dead.'

"'Dead!' I said, starting.

"'Yes, he is without doubt dead; here is an account of his death.'

"Jasper then opened an Australian paper and showed me the name, also the full account of a man who answered in all particulars to the Alexander Wilson named as a third trustee. Jasper then proceeded to unfold yet further his scheme.

"That trustee being dead, we were absolute masters of the situation, we could appropriate that money. The widow knew nothing yet of her husband's will; she need never know. The sum meant for her was, under existing circumstances, much too large. She should not want, she should have abundance. But we too should not want. Were our father living he would ask us to do this. We should save ourselves and the great house of Harman Brothers. In short, to put the thing in plain language, we should, by stealing the widow's money, save ourselves. By being faithless to our most solemn trust, we could keep the filthy lucre. I will not say how I struggled. I did struggle for a day; in the evening I yielded. I don't excuse myself in the very least. In the evening I fell as basely as a man could fall. I believe in my fall I sank even lower than Jasper. I said to him, 'I cannot bear poverty, it will kill Constance, and Constance must not die; but you must manage everything. I can go into no details; I can never, never as long as I live, see that widow and child. You must see them, you must settle enough, abundance on them, but never mention their names to me. I can do the deed, but the victims must be dead to me.'

"To all this Jasper promised readily enough. He promised and acted. All went, outwardly, smoothly and well; there was no hitch, no outward flaw, no difficulty, the firm was saved; none but we two knew how nearly it had been engulfed in hopeless shipwreck. It recovered itself by means of that stolen money, and flew lightly once again over the waters of prosperity. Yes, our house was saved, and from that hour my happiness fled. I had money, money in abundance and to spare; but I never knew another hour, day or night, of peace. I had done the deed to save my wife, but I found that, though God would give me that cursed wealth, He yet would take away my idol for whom I had sacrificed my soul. Constance only grew well enough to leave England. We wintered abroad, and at Cannes, surrounded by all that base money could supply, she closed her eyes. I returned home a widower, and the most wretched man on the face of the earth. Soon after, the Australian branch of our business growing and growing, Jasper found it well to visit that country. He did so, and stayed away many years. Soon after he landed, he wrote to tell me that he had seen the grave of Alexander Wilson; that he had made many inquiries about him, and that now there was not the least shadow of doubt that the other trustee was dead. He said that our last fears of discovery might now rest.

"Years went by, and we grew richer and richer; all we put our hands to prospered. Money seemed to grow for us on every tree. I could give my one child all that wealth could suggest. She grew up unsullied by what was eating into me as a canker. She was beautiful alike in mind and body; she was and is the one pure and lovely thing left to me. She became engaged to a good and honorable man. He had, it is true, neither money nor position, but I had learned, through all these long years of pain, to value such things at their true worth. Charlotte should marry where her heart was. I gave her leave to engage herself to Hinton. Shortly after that engagement, Jasper, my brother, returned from Australia. His presence, reminding me, as it did, day and night, of my crime, but added to my misery of soul. I was surprised, too, to see how easily what was dragging me to the very gate of hell seemed to rest on him. I could never discover, narrowly as I watched him, that he was anything but a happy man. One evening, after spending some hours in his presence, I fainted away quite suddenly. I was alone when this fainting fit overtook me. I believe I was unconscious for many hours. The next day I went to consult a doctor. Then and there, in that great physician's consulting-room, I learned that I am the victim of an incurable complaint; a complaint that must end my life, must end it soon, and suddenly. In short, the doctor said to me, not in words, but by look, by manner, by significant hand pressure, and that silent sympathy which speaks a terrible fact. 'Prepare to meet thy God.' Since the morning I left the doctor's presence I have been trying to prepare; but between God and me stands my sin. I cannot get a glimpse of God. I wait, and wait, but I only see the awful sin of my youth. In short, sir, I am in the far country where God is not."

"To die so would be terrible," said Mr. Home.

"To die so will be terrible, sir; in, short, it will be hell."

"Do not put it in the future tense, Mr. Harman, for you that day is past."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that even now, though you know it not, you are no longer in the far country. You are the prodigal son if you like, but you are on the road back to the Father. You are on the homeward road, and the Father is looking out for you. When you come to die you will not be alone, the hand of God will hold yours, and the smile of a forgiving God will say to you, as the blessed Jesus said once to a poor sinful woman, who yet was not half as great a sinner as you are, 'Thy sins, which are many, are forgiven thee.'"

"You believe then in the greatness of my sin?"

"I believe, I know that your sin was enormous; but so also is your repentance."

"God knows I repent," answered Mr. Harman.

"Yes; when you asked me to visit you, and when you poured out that story in my ears, your long repentance and anguish of heart were beginning to find vent."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that you will make reparation."

"Ay, indeed I am more than willing. Zacchaeus restored fourfold."

"Yes, the road for you, straight to the bosom of the Father, is very prickly and full of sharp thorns. You have held a high character for honor and respectability. You have a child who loves you, who has thought you perfect. You must step down from your high pedestal. You must renounce the place you have held in your child's heart. In short, you must let your only child, and also the cold, censorious world, see you as God has seen you for so long."

"I don't mind the world, but—my child—my only child," said Mr. Harman, and now he put up his trembling hands and covered his face. "That is a very hard road," he said after a pause.

"There is no other back to the Father," answered the clergyman.

"Well, I will take it then, for I must get back to Him. You are a man of God. I put myself in your hands. What am I to do?"

"You put yourself not into my hands, sir, but into the loving and merciful hands of my Lord Christ. The course before you is plain. You must find out those you have robbed; you must restore all, and ask these wronged ones' forgiveness. When they forgive, the peace of God will shine into your heart."

"You mean the widow and the child. But I do not know anything of them; I have shut my eyes to their fate."

"The widow is dead, but the child lives; I happen to know her; I can bring her to you."

"Can you? How soon?"

"In an hour and a half from now if you like. I should wish you to rest in that peace I spoke of before morning. Shall I bring her to-night?"

"Yes, I will see her; but first, first, will you pray with me?"

Mr. Home knelt down at once. The gray-headed and sinful man knelt by his side. Then the clergyman hurried away to fetch his wife.



CHAPTER LIII.

THE PRINCE OF PEACE.

It was very nearly midnight when Mr. Home, entering the sitting-room where his wife waited up for him, asked her to come with him at once.

"There is a hansom at the door," he said, "put on your bonnet and come. I will tell you all as we drive along; come at once, we have not a moment to lose."

Charlotte Home, accustomed as Home's wife to imperative demands, only thought of a night's nursing of some specially poor patient. She rose without a word, and in two minutes they were driving, as fast as a fleet horse could take them to Prince's Gate.

"Charlotte," said her husband, taking her hand, "God has heard my prayer, God has given me the man's soul."

"Whose soul, my dearest?"

"The soul of John Harman. Charlotte, I have prayed as I never prayed before in all my life for that guilty and troubled sinner's soul. I have been in an agony for it; it has seemed to me at times that for this lost and suffering brother I could lay down my very life. On Sunday last I went to conduct service in the small iron church. I tried the night before to prepare a sermon; no thought would come to me. I tried at last to look up an old one; no old sermon would commend itself. Finally I dropped all thought of the morrow's sermon and spent the greater part of the night in prayer. My prayer was for this sinner, and it seemed to me, that as I struggled and pleaded, God the Father and God the Son drew nigh. I went to bed with a wonderfully close sense of their presence. At morning prayers the next day, Miss Harman and her father entered the church. You may well look at me in surprise, Charlotte, but when I saw them I felt quiet enough; I only knew that God had sent them. For the first time in my life I preached without note or written help. I felt, however, at no loss for words; my theme was the Prodigal Son. I thought only of Mr. Harman; I went home and continued to pray for him. On Tuesday morning—that is, this morning—he was again at the church. After the prayers were over he waited to speak to me: he asked me to visit him at his own house this evening. I went there; I have been with him all the evening; he told me his life story, the bitter story of his fall. I am now come for you, for he must confess to you—you are the wronged one."

"I am going to see John Harman, my half-brother who has wronged me?" said Mrs. Home; "I am going to him now without preparation? Oh! Angus, I cannot, not to-night, not to-night."

"Yes, dear, it must be to-night; if there is any hardness left in your heart it will melt when you see this sinner, whom God has forgiven."

"Angus, you are all tenderness and love to him; I cannot aspire to your nature, I cannot. To this man, who has caused such misery and sin, I feel hard. Charlotte I pity, Charlotte I love; but this man, this man who deliberately could rob my dead mother! It is against human nature to feel very sorry for him."

"You mean to tell me, Charlotte, that you refuse to forgive him?"

"No; eventually you will conquer me; but just now, I confess, my heart is not full of pity."

Mr. Home thought for a moment. He was pained by his wife's want of sympathy. Then he reflected that she had not seen Mr. Harman. It was plain, however, that they must not meet until her spirit towards him had changed.

"Do not stop at Prince's Gate," he called out to the cabby, "drive on until I ask you to stop."

During the drive that followed, he told his wife Mr. Harman's story. He told it well, for when he had finished, Charlotte turned to him eyes which had shed some tears.

"Does Charlotte know of this?" she said.

"I do not think so. Will you come to Mr. Harman now?"

"Yes. I will come on one condition!"

"What is that?"

"That I may see Charlotte afterwards."

"I am sure that can be managed."

Then Mr. Home desired the cabby to stop at Prince's Gate. A sleepy-looking servant waited up for them. He manifested no surprise at sight of the lady and gentleman at such an hour. Mr. Home took his wife's hand, and the servant led them straight to his master's study.

"I have told her the story," said Mr. Home; "she is your father's child, she comes to——" Here the clergyman paused and looked at his wife, he wanted the word "forgive" to come from her own lips. Mrs. Home had grown white to her very lips. Now instead of replying, she fell upon her knees and covered her face.

"Charlotte," said Mr. Harman, "can you do what this clergyman wants? Can you forgive the sin?" There was no answer; Mrs. Home was sobbing aloud. "I have robbed you, I have robbed you most cruelly. My dying father asked me to be good to you; I have been worse than cruel. You see before you an old, old man, as great a sinner as can be found on God's earth. Can you forgive me? Dare I ask it? At last, at last I make full reparation; I repent me, in dust and ashes; I repent, and I restore all fourfold." But here Charlotte Home had risen suddenly to her feet. She came up close to Mr. Harman, and taking his hand raised it to her lips.

"My husband has told me all. I, I quite forgive you," she said.

Mr. Harman glanced at the clergyman. "Your husband?" he said.

"Yes; she is my wife," answered Mr. Home. "Sir, you heard my wife say that she quite forgives. You may go to rest to-night, with a very peaceful heart; the peace of God which passes all understanding may encompass your pillow to-night. It is late and you have gone through much, may I go with you to your room? There will be many explanations yet to make; but though a clergyman, I am also in some measure a physician. I see you can go through no more emotion to-night, rest satisfied that all explanations can wait till to-morrow."

"I will go with you," answered Mr. Harman, "but may I first thank your wife?" Charlotte Home's bonnet had fallen off as she knelt on the floor, now suddenly a withered and trembling hand was placed on her head. "God bless you! Even from a sinner like me, such words from a full heart must be heard."

"Ay," said Mr. Home, in a loud, exultant voice, "the Prince of peace and forgiveness has come into this house to-night."



CHAPTER LIV.

CHARLOTTE'S ROOM.

Mr. Home and Mr. Harman went away together, and Charlotte was left alone in the study. By the profound stillness which now reigned in the house she guessed that every one had gone to bed. The servant who had admitted them at so late an hour had looked sleepy as he had done so. Doubtless Mr. Harman had desired him not to wait longer. Charlotte felt there was no use in ringing a bell. She scarcely knew her way about this great house. Nevertheless she must find Charlotte; she could not wait until the morning to throw her arms round her neck. She took one of the candles from the mantelpiece and began her tour through the silent house. She felt strangely timid as she commenced this midnight pilgrimage. The softly-carpeted stairs echoed back no footfall; she passed door after door. At last she recognized Charlotte's own private sitting-room, she had been there two or three times, but had never seen the room where her friend slept. A corridor, however, ran directly from this sitting-room, and Charlotte saw a closed door at the further end. "That must be the room," she said to herself, and she went straight towards it. The door was closed, but Charlotte heard a faint sound within. Instantly on hearing it she knocked lightly, but distinctly. There was a quick sound of hurried and surprised feet, and Charlotte Harman opened the door. Her eyes were heavy and red, as though she had been weeping. Her face was pale. She had not begun to undress.

"Charlotte; Charlotte Home!" she exclaimed. "Oh, what is wrong? My father!"

"Nothing is wrong, dear Charlotte, dear, dear Charlotte; but may I come in? I have a great deal to tell you."

"Oh, I shall be glad! but how astonished I am to see you. I could not sleep. Yes, come in, you shall keep me company. Charlotte, you have been crying. Charlotte, there is something wrong."

"You may well be surprised to see me here," said Mrs. Home, "but, strange as it may seem, things are more right than wrong. My husband came first, then he brought me."

"Yes, I saw Mr. Home early in the evening. I saw him go into my father's study. When he went away I went there myself; but the door was locked, and my father called out from within, 'Not to-night, my child; don't sit up for me, come to me in the morning, I would rather be alone to-night.' He never before refused to see me to say good-night. I went to my room. I could not rest. Everything seems very dark. I have been crying, and now you have come. Oh, Charlotte! what is the meaning of it all?"

"The meaning is good, Charlotte; but good or bad, you have to thank yourself for it. Why did you take your father to my husband's church on Sunday?"

"He came to me on Sunday morning," answered Miss Harman. "He said he would like to go to church with me. He never did go to church with me—never, for many months. I asked him where he would go. He said he would leave it to me. Then it flashed across me that he did not know Mr. Home, also that I had never heard Mr. Home preach. I resolved to go to his church. We drove to Kentish Town. I made a few inquiries. I found out the little church where your husband told the people of his congregation how best to live, how best to die. Ah, Charlotte! he did preach to us. What a man he is!"

"He realizes the absolute daily presence of God more perfectly than any man I ever met," answered the wife. "My dear, it was God himself led you to my husband's church on Sunday. Your father went there again to-day. After the service he stopped to speak to Angus. He asked him to come to him this evening. This evening he told my husband all; all the story of his sin, his repentance. Angus heard all, and when it was over he sent for me. I saw your father. Charlotte, your father may have been a sinner, but with such sinners, as he was once, the New Jerusalem will be filled by and by. Ah! thank God for the peace I saw on his face before I left him. Do you know that he put his hand on my head and blessed me. Angus is with him now, and I have come to you."

"My father has told all!" said Charlotte Harman. Her face could scarcely grow any whiter. She made no further exclamation, but sat quiet. Charlotte Home, having told her story, watched her face. Suddenly, with tears springing to her eyes, she turned to the wife and mother who stood by her side.

"Charlotte, how hard my heart has been! I have passed through some dreadful weeks. Oh! how heavy was my burden, how heavy was my heart! My heart was growing very hard; but the hardness has gone now. Now, Charlotte, I believe, I believe fully what your little Harold said to me some weeks ago."

"What did he say to you, dearest?"

"He said that Jesus Christ loved me very much. Yes, I believe Jesus does love me very much. Oh, Charlotte! do you know that I am tired and rested, and I want to sleep altogether. Will you lie down beside me? You will not leave me to-night?"

"No, darling; I will not leave you to-night."



CHAPTER LV.

HOW SANDY WILSON SPEAKS OUT HIS MIND.

Early in the morning, the father and daughter met. Not very many words passed between them. Mr. Harman knew that Mrs. Home had told Charlotte all. Now, coming to his side, she put her arms about him, and knelt, looking into his face.

"Charlotte, you know what I have been," he said.

"Father, I know what you are now," she answered.

After these few words, she would scarcely allow him to speak again, for he was very weak, too weak to leave his bed; but later on, in the course of the day, they had a long talk together, and Charlotte told her father of her own suffering during the past weeks. There was no longer need of concealment between them, and Charlotte made none. It was a very few days later that two trustees of the late Mr. Harman's will saw each other for the first time.

Sandy Wilson had often looked forward to the moment when he could speak out his mind as to the enormity of the crime committed by Mr. Harman. Hitherto, this worthy man had felt that in this respect circumstances had been hard on him. His Daisy, his pretty little gentle sister, had been treated as hardly, as cruelly, as woman could be treated, and yet the robber—for was he not just a common robber?—had got off scot free; he was to get off scot free to the very end; he was to be let die in peace; and afterwards, his innocent child, his only daughter, must bear the brunt of his misdeeds. She must be put to grief and shame, while he, the one on whose head the real sin lay, escaped. Sandy felt that it would have been some slight relief to his wounded feelings if he could find some one to whom he could thoroughly and heartily abuse Mr. Harman. But even this satisfaction was denied him. Mr. Home was a man who would listen to abuse of none; and even Charlotte, though her eyes did flash when his name was mentioned, even she was simply silent, and to all the rest of the world Sandy must keep the thing a secret.

There was no doubt whatever that when, the day after Mr. Harman's confession, the Homes came to Uncle Sandy and told him, not only all, but also that at any moment he might receive a summons to visit Mr. Harman, he felt a sense of exultation; also that his exultation was caused, not by the fact that his niece would now get back her own, for he had supplied her immediate need for money, but by the joyful sense that at last, at last, he, Sandy, could speak out his full mind. He could show this bad man, about whom every one was so strangely, so absurdly silent, what he thought of his conduct to his dear little sister. He went away to Prince's Gate, when at last the summons came, bristling over with a quite delightful sense of power. How well he would speak! how cleverly he would insert the arrow of remorse into that cruel heart! As he entered the house he was met by Miss Harman. She held out her hand to him without a word, and led him to the door of her father's study. Her eyes, however, as she looked at him for a moment, were eloquent. Those eyes of hers had exercised a power over him in Somerset House; they were full of pleading now. He went into Mr. Harman's presence softened, a little confused, and with his many excellent, to the point, and scathing remarks running riot in his brain.

Thus it came to pass that Sandy said no word of reproach to the broken-down man who greeted him. Nay, far from reproaching, he felt himself sharing in the universal pity. Where God's hand was smiting hard, how could man dare to raise his puny arm?

The two trustees, meeting for the first time after all these years, talked long over that neglected, that unfulfilled trust, and steps were put in train to restore to Charlotte Home what had for so many years been held back from her. This large sum, with all back interest, would make the once poor Charlotte very rich indeed. There would still be, after all was settled, something left for Charlotte Harman, but the positions of the two were now virtually reversed.

"There is one thing which still puzzles me," said Mr. Harman before they parted. "Leaving my terrible share in this matter alone, my brother and I could never have carried out our scheme if you had not been supposed to be dead. How is it you gave no sign of your existence for three and twenty years? My brother even wrote me word from Australia that he had himself stood on your grave."

"He stood on the grave of Sandy Wilson, but never on mine," answered the other trustee. "There was a fellow bearing my name, who was with me in the Bush. He was the same age. He was like me too in general outline; big, with red hair and all that kind of thing. His name was put into the papers, and I remember wondering if the news would reach home, and if my little Daisy—bless her!—would think it was me. I was frightfully poor at the time, I had scarcely sixpence to bless myself with, and somehow, your father, sir, though he did eventually trust me, as circumstances proved, yet he gave me to understand that in marrying the sister he by no means intended to take the brother to his bosom. I said to myself, 'A poor lost dog like Sandy may as well appear to be dead to those at home. I love no one in England but my little Daisy, and she does not need me, she has abundance without me.' So I ceased to write. I had gone to a part of the country where even an English paper reached us but once or twice a year. I heard nothing of the old home; and by degrees I got out of the habit of writing. I was satisfied to be considered dead. I did wrong, I confess."

"By coming back, by proclaiming your existence, you could have exposed me years ago," said Mr. Harman; "how I dreaded exposure; how little I knew, when it did come, that it would fall lightly in comparison with——"

"What?" asked Wilson.

"The awful frown of God's displeasure. Man, to be shut away from God through your own sin is to be in hell. I have dwelt there for three and twenty years. Until two nights ago, I have known no peace; now, I know God can forgive even such a sin as mine."

"I believe you have suffered, Mr. Harman," answered Wilson. "For the matter of that, we are all poor sinners. God have mercy upon us all!"

"Amen," said Mr. Harman.

And that was all the reproof Sandy ever found in his heart to give to his fellow trustee.



CHAPTER LVI.

MRS. HOME'S DREAM.

Still, there was a weight on Charlotte Home's mind. Much had been given to her, so much that she could scarcely believe herself to be the same woman, who a few short months ago had pawned her engagement ring to buy her little son a pair of shoes. She was now wealthy beyond her wildest dreams; she was wealthy not only in money but in friends. Charlotte Harman was her almost daily companion. Charlotte Harman clung to her with an almost passionate love. Uncle Sandy, too, had made himself, by his cheerfulness, his generosity, his kindness of nature, a warm place in her affections; and Mr. Harman saw her more than once, and she found that she could love even Mr. Harman. Then—how well, how beautiful her children looked! How nice it was to see them surrounded by those good things of life which, despise them as some people will, still add charms to those who possess them! Above all, how happy her dear husband was! Angus Home's face was like the sun itself, during the days which followed Mr. Harman's confession. This sunshine with him had nothing to say to the altered and improved circumstances of his life; but it had a great deal to say to the altered circumstances of his mind. God had most signally, most remarkably, heard his prayer. He had given to him the soul for which he pleaded. Through all eternity that suffering, and once so sinful, soul was safe. Mr. Home rejoiced over that redeemed soul as one who finds great spoil. Added love to God filled his grateful heart; his faith in God became more and more, day by day, a mighty power. Thus Charlotte Home was surrounded by as much sunshine as often visits a human being in this mortal life; yet still this unreasonable woman was discontented. The fact was, success had made her bold. She had obtained what her heart had pined for. She wanted another little drop of bliss to complete her overflowing cup. Charlotte Home was unselfish in her joy. There was a shadow on another's brow. She wanted that shadow to depart; in short, she wanted Hinton and Charlotte to meet; not only to meet, but as quickly as possible to marry. Charlotte's heart was still with this lover whom she had given up, and who seemed to have forsaken her. Mrs. Home saw this, though on the subject of Hinton Charlotte still refused to speak. She said once, and only once, to her friend:

"We have parted, we have most absolutely parted. There is no use now looking back on the past; he must never share my disgrace. Yes, my dear and beloved father has repented nobly: but the disgrace remains. He must never share it. He sees the wisdom of this himself, so we will not speak of him, dear Charlotte; I can bear it best so."

This little speech was made with great firmness; but there was a strained look about the lips, and a sorrow about the eyes which Mrs. Home understood very well. She must not speak, but no one could prevent her acting. She resolved to leave no stone unturned to bring these two together again. In doing this she would act for the good of two whom she loved, for Hinton was also very dear to her. She could never forget those nights when he sat by the bed of her almost dying child. She could never forget the prompt interference which saved that child's life. She had learned enough of his character, during those few weeks which they had spent together, to feel sure that no disgrace such as Charlotte feared would influence him to cause her pain. It is true she could not in any measure account for his absence and his silence; but she was quite wise enough and quite clever enough to believe that both could be satisfactorily accounted for. She could, however, do nothing without seeing Hinton. How could she see him? She had written to his chambers, she had written to his lodgings; from both addresses had the letters been returned. She thought of advertising. She lay awake at night trying to devise some scheme. At last one night she had a dream; so far curious, in that it conducted her to the desired end. She dreamt that Hinton came to Waterloo station, not to remain in London, but to pass through to another part of England. There was nothing more in her dream; nevertheless, she resolved to go to that station on the next day. Her dream had not even pointed to any particular hour. She looked in Bradshaw, saw when a great express from the south was due, and started off on what might truly be called a wild-goose chase.

Nevertheless, instinct, if nothing higher, had guided Charlotte Home; for the first person she saw stepping out of a carriage of this very train was Hinton. She saw Hinton, he also saw her.

"You must come with me," she said, going up to him and laying her hand on his arm. "You must come with me, and at once, for God has sent me to you."

"But I cannot," he answered, "I am catching another train at Euston. I am going on special business to Scotland. It is important. I cannot put it off. I am ever so sorry; but I must jump into a cab at once." He held out his hand as he spoke.

Mrs. Home glanced into his face. His face was changed; it was pale and worn. There was a hard look about both eyes and mouth, which both altered and considerably spoiled his expression.

"I will not keep you if you still wish to go, after hearing my story," answered Mrs. Home; "but there will be room for two in your hansom. You do not object to my driving with you to Euston?"

Hinton could not say he objected to this, though in his heart he felt both annoyed and surprised.

As they were driving along, Mrs. Home said,—

"Have you heard anything lately of Mr. Harman?"

To this Hinton replied, "I have not; and pardon me, Mr. Harman does not interest me."

"Ah!" said Mrs. Home, "he interests me very much. He—he told my husband a strange tale—a tale about himself."

"Did he confess his guilt? I know that he is a very sinful man."

"He has been a great sinner, but he has repented. He has confessed that early and terrible sin of his youth. He has not only confessed, but he is taking steps to make full reparation."

"Indeed! then you will come into your rights? Let me congratulate you."

"You knew of his sin? You knew what his sin was Mr. Hinton?"

"Yes, I knew."

"Charlotte had hoped to keep that disgrace from you."

"Ah!"

"She gave you another reason for breaking off her engagement?"

"Yes, a weak and futile one. She could not expect me to believe it. I did what she had but done before me. I went to Somerset House and saw that will which has been so greatly abused."

"She never knew that."

"Pardon me, she did."

"I fear I must be rude enough to contradict you. She said most distinctly that you were fully satisfied with the reasons she had given for breaking off the engagement, that perhaps you might never now learn what her father had done."

Hinton looked at his companion in some perplexity.

"But I wrote to her," he said. "I wrote a letter which, it seemed to me, any woman who had a spark even of kindness would have answered. In that letter, I told her that I held her to her promise; that I knew all; that even if she did not write to me I would call and try to see her. She never replied to my letter, and when, after waiting for twenty-four hours, I went to the house, she absolutely refused to see me."

"She never knew you called," answered Mrs. Home, "and she never got your letter."

"Good heavens! how do you know?"

"I know her too well; but I will ask her directly."

Hinton was silent.

After a short pause, Mrs. Home broke out passionately,—

"How dare you insinuate doubts of so noble a creature?"

"I could only believe facts."

"Has a letter never gone astray? Has a letter never failed to reach the hands it was meant for? Mr. Hinton, I am ashamed of you."

"If you can prove that she never got it?"

"I know she never got it. She is changed; her heart is half broken. But I will prove it. I will go to her at once. Are you still going to Scotland?"

"I need not go until I hear from you. You have astonished me greatly."

"Then drive to my house. Ah! you do not know our new address; it is ——; wait for me there, I will be with you in an hour or so."



CHAPTER LVII.

JOHN.

Hinton went to Mrs. Home's house. The children were out, Mr. Home was not visible. Anne, now converted into a neat parlor-maid, received him with broad grins of pleasure. She ushered him into the pretty, newly-furnished drawing-room, and asked him to wait for her mistress.

"Missis 'ull be back afore long," she said, lingering a little to readjust the blinds, and half hoping, half expecting, Hinton to make some surprised and approving remark on the changed circumstances of the Homes' surroundings.

He made none, however; and Anne, with a slight sigh, left him alone. When she did so he rose to his feet and began to pace quickly up and down the room. After a time, half an hour or so, he pulled out his watch. Yes, he had already lost that express to the north. A good piece of business would probably be also lost. But what matter! beyond ascertaining the fact that he had missed his train, he did not give the affair another thought. To tell the truth, his mind was agitated, his heart was full; hope once more peeped upon the horizon of his being. A month ago—for it was quite a month ago now—he had received as sharp and cruel a shock as falls on most men. Fortune, love, and trust had all been dashed from the lips which were already so close to the charmed cup that its very flavor was apparent. The cup had never reached the lips of Hinton. Fortune was gone, love was gone; worst of all, yes, hardest of all, trust was gone. The ideal he had worshipped was but an ideal. The Charlotte he had loved was unworthy. She had rejected him, and cruelly. His letter was unanswered. He himself was refused admittance. Then his pride had risen in revolt. If she could so treat him, he would sue no longer. If she could so easily give him up, he would bow to her decision. She was not the Charlotte of his love and his dream. But what matter! Other men had come to an ideal and found it but a clay idol. He would recover: he would not let his heart break. He found, however, that he could not stay in London. An uncle of his, his only living near relation, was a solicitor in the south of England. Hinton went to visit his uncle. He received him warmly and kindly. He not only promised him work, but kept his word. Hinton took chambers in a fashionable part of the town, and already was not idle. But he was a changed man. That shattered trust was making his spirit very hard. The cynical part of him was being fostered. Mrs. Home, when she looked into his face, was quite right in saying to herself that his expression had not improved. Now, however, again, as he paced up and down, soft thoughts were visiting him. For what doubts, what blessed doubts had Mrs. Home not insinuated? How irregularly his heart beat; how human he felt once more! Ah! what sound was that? A cab had drawn up at the door. Hinton flew to the window; he saw the soft fawn shade of a lady's dress, he could not see the lady. Of course, it was Mrs. Home returning. What news did she bring? How he longed to fly to meet her! He did not do so, however; his feet felt leaden weighted. He leant against the window, with his back to the door. His heart beat harder and harder; he clenched his hands hard. There was a quick step running up the stairs, a quick and springing step. The drawing-room door was opened and then shut. He heard the rustle of soft drapery, then a hand was laid on his arm. The touch of that hand made him tremble violently. He turned his head, and—not Charlotte Home—but his Charlotte, beautiful and true, stood by his side. Their eyes met.

"John!" she said.

"My own, my darling!" he answered.

In an instant they were clasped in each other's arms. That swift glance, which each had given the other, had told all.

* * * * *

"John, I never got your letter."

"No!"

"John, you doubted me."

"I did, I confess it; I confess it bitterly. But not now, not after one glance into your eyes."

"John, what did you say in that letter?"

"That I held you to your sacred promise; that I refused to give you up."

"But—but—you did not know my true reason. You did not know why—why——"

"Yes, I knew all. Before I wrote that letter I went to Somerset house. I read your grandfather's will."

"Ah! did you—did you indeed? Oh! what a dreadful time I have gone through."

"Yes, but it is over now. Mrs. Home told me how your father had repented. The sin is forgiven. The agony is past. What God forgets don't let us remember. Lottie, cease to think of it. It is at an end, and so are our troubles. I am with you again. Oh! how nearly I had lost you."

Charlotte's head was on her lover's shoulder. His arm was round her. "Charlotte, I repeat what I said in that letter which never reached you. I refuse to absolve you from your promise. I refuse to give you up. Do you hear? I refuse to give you up."

"But, John, I am poor now."

"Poor or rich, you are yourself, and you are mine. Charlotte, do you hear me? If you hear me answer me. Tell me that you are mine."

"I am yours, John," she said simply, and she raised her lips to kiss him.



CHAPTER LVIII.

BRIDE AND BRIDEGROOM.

A month after—just one month after, there was a very quiet wedding; a wedding performed in the little church at Kentish Town. The ceremony was thought by the few who witnessed it to be, even for that obscure part, a very poor one. There were no bridesmaids, or white dresses, or, indeed, white favors in any form. The bride wore the plainest gray travelling suit. She was given away by her gray-headed father; Charlotte Home stood close behind her; Mr. Home married the couple, and Uncle Sandy acted as best man. Surely no tamer ending could come to what was once meant to be such a brilliant affair. Immediately after the ceremony, the bride and bridegroom went away for two days and Mrs. Home went back to Prince's Gate with Mr. Harman, for she had promised Charlotte to take care of her father until her return.

Many changes were contemplated. The grand house in Prince's gate was to be given up, and the Hintons were to live in that large southern town where Hinton was already obtaining a young barrister's great ambition—briefs. Mr. Harman, while he lived, was to find his home with his son and daughter.

Mr. Harman was now a peaceful and happy man, and so improved was his health—so had the state of his mind affected his body, that though he could never hope for cure of his malady, yet Sir George Anderson assured him that with care he might live for a very much longer time than he had thought possible a few months before. Thus death stood back, not altogether thrust aside, but biding its time.

On the morning of Charlotte's wedding-day there arrived a letter from Jasper.

"So you have told all?" he said to his brother. "Well, be it so. From the time I knew the other trustee was not dead and had reached England, I felt that discovery was at hand. No, thank you; I shall never come back to England. If you can bear poverty and public disgrace, I cannot. I have some savings of my own, and on these I can live during my remaining days. Good-bye—we shall never meet again on earth! I repent, do you say, of my share? Yes, the business turned out badly in the end. What a heap of money those Homes will come in for! Stolen goods don't prosper with a man! So it seems. Well, I shall stay out of England."

Jasper was true to his word. Not one of those who knew him in this tale ever heard of him again.

Yes, the Homes were now very rich; but both Mr. and Mrs. Home were faithful stewards of what was lent them from the Lord. Nor did the Hintons miss what was taken from them. It is surely enough to say of Charlotte and her husband that they were very happy.

But as sin, however repented of, must yet reap its own reward, so in this instance the great house of Harman Brothers ceased to exist. To pay that unfulfilled trust the business had to be sold. It passed into the hands of strangers, and was continued under another name. No one now remembers even its existence.

THE END.



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