How It All Came Round

She turned the paper. There, staring her in the face, lay a fresh, crisp Bank of England note for fifty pounds.

CHAPTER XXIV.

"I want to visit a friend this morning—a friend who has never had scarlet fever. It is rather important that we should meet; but I must not risk danger. You know I have been a good deal with the little boy. Is there a risk to my friend in our meeting now?"

"Change all your clothes," replied the doctor; "wear nothing you have in the Homes' house. Perhaps it would also be a wise precaution to take a Turkish bath. If you do all this you may meet your friend without the slightest risk of evil consequences."

Hinton thanked the doctor, and as the result of this conversation entered the dining-room in Prince's Gate just as Charlotte was sitting down to her solitary luncheon.

It was over three weeks since these two had met, and the long three weeks had seemed like for ever to the loving heart of the woman, who was so soon now to be Hinton's wife. She expressed her joy at this unexpected meeting, not so much by words, but so effectually with eyes and manner, that Hinton, as he folded his arms round her, could not help a great throb of thankfulness rising up from his heart.

They sat down to lunch, and then afterwards Hinton told her the story of little Harold Home. In telling this tale, however, he omitted again both name and address. He had not meant when beginning his tale to keep these things any longer a mystery from her, but as the words dropped from him, and Charlotte's eyes were fixed on his face, and Charlotte's lips trembled with emotion, some undefined sensation prompted him to keep back these particulars.

Hinton, in coming to Charlotte, relied on her help, but he meant her just now to bestow it as on a stranger. As he had expected, his tale aroused her warmest enthusiasm and interest.

"John," she said, "something must be done. The boy must not die!"

"He must go to Torquay," replied Hinton. "That is most manifest. But the difficulty will be how. They are very proud people. The difficulty will be how to induce them to accept aid from outsiders."

"Do you think they will be proud, John, when their child's life depends on their accepting some aid from others? I don't think they will allow so false an emotion to sacrifice his little precious life. It seems to me, that were I in that mother's place, I would lick the dust off the most menial feet that ever walked, to save my child."

"Perhaps you are right," said Hinton: "there is no doubt that one woman can best read the heart of another. What I propose is, that I take the little boy down to Torquay for a few weeks; I can make an excuse to the mother on my own score, and it will not seem so hard for her to send her boy. And the little lad loves me, I believe."

"Would it not be best for the mother to take her child herself?"

"It undoubtedly would. But it would be placing her under deeper obligation. I want to make it as light as possible to her."

"Then, John, you will give me one happiness? I will provide the money for this expedition."

"You shall, my dearest," answered Hinton, stooping down and kissing her.

He meant her to help Charlotte Home in this way, and he did not notice the slight sigh scarcely allowed to escape her lips. The fact was, Charlotte Harman had grown very hungry, almost starved, for her lover during his three weeks' absence, and now the thought that he was going still farther away from her, and their wedding-day drawing so quickly on, could not but excite a pang; the selfish part of her rose in revolt, and struggled to rebel, but with a firm hand she kept it well under, and Hinton never noticed her strangled little sigh. They talked for a long time of their plans, and Charlotte mentioned what money she had of her very own, and which could be immediately at Hinton's disposal. In the midst of this conversation, the postman's knock was heard, and a moment later a servant brought Charlotte a letter. She did not recognize the handwriting, and laid it for a moment unopened by her side. Then some confused remembrance of having seen it before, caused her to tear open the envelope. This was what her eyes rested on.

Charlotte Home.

Charlotte Harman's face was very white when, after reading this letter, she raised her eyes to Hinton's. What had been written with all joy and thankfulness was received with pain. Why had Hinton kept this thing from her? Why had he not told her where he had been staying?

"You kept a secret from me," she said, and her eyes filled with heavy tears.

Then as he tried to comfort her, being very compunctious himself at having failed utterly to trust one so brave and noble, she suddenly drew herself from his embrace.

"John," she said, with some pride in her voice, "did you in any degree keep this thing from me because you believed Mrs. Home's story about my grandfather's will?"

"I had a thousand nameless reasons for not telling you, Charlotte. My principal one after the child got ill was my fear that you would come to the house, and so run the risk of infection."

"Then you do not at all believe Mrs. Home's story?"

"I have not investigated it, my darling. I have done nothing but simply listen to what you yourself told me. You do not believe it?"

"Certainly not! How could I? It implicates my father."

"We will not think of it, Charlotte."

"We must think of it, for justice must be done to this woman and to her children; and besides, I wish to clear it up, for I will not have my father blamed."

Hinton was silent. Charlotte gazed at him eagerly, his silence dissatisfied her. His whole manner carried the conviction that his faith in her father was by no means equal to hers.

"Is it possible to see wills?" she asked suddenly.

"Certainly, dear; anybody can see any will by paying a shilling, at Somerset House."

"Would my grandfather's will be kept at Somerset House?"

"Yes. All wills are kept there."

"Then," said Charlotte, rising as she spoke, "before our wedding-day I will go to Somerset House and read my grandfather's will."

CHAPTER XXV.

Little Harold Home had gone to Torquay with his mother. Hinton was once more free to go in and out of the house in Prince's Gate, and he and Charlotte were necessarily much occupied with each other. There seemed to these two so much to be done, and the time seemed so short until the twentieth of April, that had the very sun stood still for them, they would have felt no undue sensation of surprise.

When people are about to step into the Garden of Eden even nature must sympathize, and marriage seemed that to Charlotte and Hinton. After their wedding tour it was arranged that they were to come to the house in Prince's Gate. For some time Mr. Harman had begged them to make it their home; but though Hinton could not oppose, he had a hope of some day settling down in a smaller house. He liked the power which wealth could give, but he was so unused to luxuries, that they were in themselves almost repellent to him. Charlotte, on the contrary, was perfectly happy to live in the old place. Home to this womanly heart was wherever her loved ones were; and she also acceded joyfully to another question which otherwise might have appeared a little either strange or selfish. Her father begged of her not to extend her wedding tour beyond a week. "Come back to me," said the old man, "at the end of a week; let me feel that comfort when you say good-by on your wedding-day."

Charlotte had promised, with her arms round his neck and her bright hair touching his silver locks. And now April had set in, and the days flew fast. All was bustle and confusion, and milliners and dressmakers worked as though there had never been a bride before, and Charlotte, too, believed there had never been so happy, so fortunate, so altogether blessed a woman as herself.

One of those spring days, for the weather was particularly lovely, Mr. Harman came home earlier than usual and went to his study. For no special reason he had found it impossible to settle to any active work that morning. He had hastened home, and now taking his accustomed medicine, lay back in his armchair to rest. The medicine he had taken was partly of a sedative character, but to-day it failed in all soothing effects. That bloodhound Thought was near, and with a bound it sprang forward and settled its fangs into his heartstrings.

Mr. Harman could not sit still, he rose and began to pace his room. Stay—how could he quiet this monster of remorse and reflection? Would death do it by and by? He shook his head as this idea came to him. Were death but an annihilation he could, would, how gladly, welcome it, but all his firmest convictions pointed to a God and a future. A future to him meant retribution. He found it absolutely impossible to comfort his heart with so false a doctrine as that of annihilation. In the midst of his meditations his brother Jasper entered.

"Good Heavens! John, you do look bad!" he exclaimed almost involuntarily, noticing the anguish on the fine old face.

"I'm a very miserable man," answered John Harman, and he sank down into a chair as he spoke.

"I would not think so much about my health," said Jasper; "doctors are the most mistaken fools under the sun. I knew a man out in Australia, and the first medical man in Sydney told him he had not a week to live. He came home and made his will and bid all his relations good-by. Well, what were the consequences? The week came to an end, but not the man; my dear John, that man is alive now, and what is more, he is in the enjoyment of perfect health. The doctor was all wrong; they are mortal like ourselves, man, and by no means infallible. I would not take my death for granted, if I were you; I would determine to take out a fresh lease of life when Charlotte is married. Determination does wonders in such cases."

"I am not thinking of my death," answered Mr. Harman; "were death but all, I could almost welcome it. No, it is not death, it is memory. Jasper," he added, turning fiercely on his brother, "you were as the very devil to me once, why do you come to preach such sorry comfort now?"

Jasper Harman had an impenetrable face, but at these words it turned a shade pale. He went to the fire and stirred it, he put on more coal, he even arranged in a rather noisy way one or two of the chimney ornaments.

"If only that trustee had not died just then—and if only—only you had not tempted me," continued the elder man.

"You forget, John," suddenly said Jasper, "what the alternative would have been just then, absolute ruin, ruin coupled with disgrace!"

"I do not believe in the disgrace, and as to the ruin, we could have started afresh. Oh! to start even now with but sixpence in my pocket, and with clean hands! What would have been the old disgrace compared to the present misery?"

"Take comfort, John, no one knows of it; and if we are but careful no one need ever know. Don't excite yourself, be but careful, and no one need ever know."

"God knows," answered the white-headed elder brother. And at these words Jasper again turned his face away. After a time, in which he thought briefly and rapidly, he turned, and sitting down by John, began to speak.

"Something has come to my knowledge which may be a comfort to you. I did not mention it earlier, because in your present state of health I know you ought not to worry yourself. But as it seems you are so over-sensitive, I may as well mention that it will be possible for you to make reparation without exposing yourself."

"How?" asked Mr. Harman.

"I know where Daisy Harman's daughter lives—you know we completely lost sight of her. I believe she is poor; she is married to a curate, all curates are poor; they have three children. Suppose, suppose you settled, say, well, half the money her mother had for her lifetime, on this young woman. That would be seventy-five pounds a year; a great difference seventy-five pounds would make in a poor home."

"A little of the robbery paid back," said Mr. Harman with a dreary smile. "Jasper, you are a worse rogue than I am, and I believe you study the Bible less. God knows I don't care to confront myself with its morality, but I have a memory that it recommends, nay, commands, in the case of restoring again, or of paying back stolen goods, that not half should be given, but the whole, multiplied fourfold!"

"Such a deed, as Quixotic as unnecessary, could not be done, it would arouse suspicion," said Jasper decidedly.

After this the two brothers talked together for some time. Jasper quiet and calm, John disturbed and perplexed, too perplexed to notice that the younger and harder man was keeping back part of the truth. But conversation agitated John Harman, agitated him so much that that evening some of the veil was torn from his daughter's eyes, for during dinner he fainted away. Then there was commotion and dismay, and the instant sending for doctors, and John Hinton and Jasper Harman both felt almost needless alarm.

When the old man came to himself he found his head resting on his daughter's shoulder. During all the time he was unconscious she had eyes and ears for no one else.

"Leave me alone with the child," he said feebly to all the others. When they were gone, he looked at her anxious young face. "There is no cause, my darling, no cause whatever; what does one faint signify? Put your arms round me, Charlotte, and I shall feel quite well."

She did so, laying her soft cheek against his.

"Now you shall see no one but me to-night," she said, "and I shall sit with you the whole evening, and you must lie still and not talk. You are ill, father, and you have tried to keep it from me."

"A little weak and unfit for much now, I confess," he said in a tone of relief. He saw she was not seriously alarmed, and it was a comfort to confide so far in her.

"You are weak and tired, and need rest," she said: "you shall see no one to-night but me, and I will stay with you the whole evening!"

"What!" said her father, "you will give up Hinton for me, Lottie!"

"Even that I will do for you," she said, and she stooped and kissed his gray head.

"I believe you love me, Lottie. I shall think of that all the week you are away. You are sure you will only remain away one week?"

"Father, you and I have never been parted before in all my life; I promise faithfully to come back in a week," she answered.

He smiled at this, and allowing her still to retain his hand in hers, sank into a quiet sleep. While he slept Charlotte sat quietly at his feet. She felt perplexed and irresolute. Her father's fainting fit had alarmed her, and now, looking into his face, even to her inexperience, the ravages which disease, both mental and physical, had brought there could not but be apparent to her. She had to acknowledge to herself that her father, only one year her Uncle Jasper's senior, looked a very old, nay, she could not shut her eyes to the fact, a very unhappy man. What brought that look on his face? A look which she acknowledged to herself she had seen there all her life, but which seemed to be growing in intensity with his added years. She closed her own eyes with a pang as a swift thought of great anguish came over her. This thought passed as quickly as it came; in her remorse at having entertained it she stooped down and kissed the withered old hand which still lay in hers.

It was impossible for Charlotte really to doubt her father; but occupied as she was with her wedding preparations, and full of brightness as her sky undoubtedly looked to her just now, she had not forgotten Hinton's manner when she had asked him what faith he put in Mrs. Home's story. Hinton had evaded her inquiry. This evasion was as much as owning that he shared Mrs. Home's suspicions. Charlotte must clear up her beloved father in the eyes of that other beloved one. If on all hands she was warned not to agitate him, there was another way in which she could do it: she could read her grandfather's will. But though she had made up her mind to do this, she had an unaccountable repugnance to the task. For the first time in all her open, above-board life she would be doing something which she must conceal from her father. Even John Hinton should not accompany her to Somerset House. She must find the will and master its contents, and the deed once done, what a relief to her! With what joy would she with her own lips chase away the cloud which she felt sure rested over her beloved father in her lover's heart!

"It is possible that, dearly as we love each other, such a little doubt might divide us by and by," she said to herself. "Yes, yes, it is right that I should dissipate it, absolutely right, when I feel so very, very sure."

At this moment her father stirred in his sleep, and she distinctly heard the words drop from his lips——

"I would make reparation."

Before she had even time to take these words in, he had opened his eyes and was gazing at her.

"You are better now," she said, stooping down and kissing him.

"Yes, my darling; much, much better." He sat up as he spoke, and made an effort to put on at least a show of life and vigor. "A man of my age fainting, Charlotte, is nothing," he said; "really nothing whatever. You must not dwell on it again."

"I will not," she said.

Her answer comforted him and he became really brighter and better.

"It is nice to have you all to myself, my little girl; it is very nice. Not that I grudge you to Hinton; I have a great regard for Hinton; but, my darling, you and I have been so much to each other. We have never in all our lives had one quarrel."

"Quarrel, father! of course not. How can those who love as we do quarrel?"

"Sometimes they do, Lottie. Thank God, such an experience cannot visit you; but it comes to some and darkens everything. I have known it."

"You have, father?" In spite of herself, Charlotte felt her voice trembling.

"I had a great and terrible quarrel with my father, Charlotte; my father who seemed once as close to me as your father is to you. He married again, and the marriage displeased me, and such bitter words passed between us, that for years that old man and I did not speak. For years, the last years of his life, we were absolutely divided. We made it up in the end; we were one again when he died; but what happened then has embittered my whole life—my whole life."

Charlotte was silent, though the color was coming into her cheeks and her heart began to beat.

"And to-day, Lottie," continued Mr. Harman, "to-day your uncle Jasper told me about my father's little daughter. You have never heard of her; she was a baby-child when I saw her last. There were many complications after my father's death; complications which you must take on trust, for I cannot explain them to you. They led to my never seeing that child again. Lottie, though she was my little half-sister, she was quite young, not older than you, and to-day Jasper told me about her. He knows where she lives; she is married and has children, and is poor. I could never, never bring myself to look on her face; but some day, not when I am alive, but some day you may know her; I should like you to know her some day, and to be kind to her. She has been hardly treated, into that too I cannot go; but I must set it right. I mean to give her money; you will not be quite so rich; you won't mind that?"

"Mind it! mind it! Oh, father!" And Charlotte suddenly began to weep; she could not help that sudden, swift shower, though she struggled hard to repress it, seeing how her father trembled, and how each moment he looked more agitated.

"Do you know," she said, checking her sobs as soon as she possibly could, "that Uncle Jasper, too, has told me that story; he asked me not to speak of it to you, for you would only be upset. He said how much you took to heart, even still, that time when your father was angry with you."

"And I angry with him, Lottie; and I with him. Don't forget that."

"Yes, dear father, he told me the tale. I longed to come to you with it, for it puzzled me, but he would not let me. Father, I, too, have seen that little sister; she is not little now, she is tall and noble-looking. She is a sweet and brave woman, and she has three of the most lovely children I ever saw; her children are like angels. Ah! I shall be glad to help that woman and those children. I cannot thank you enough for doing this."

"Don't thank me, child; in God's name don't thank me."

"If you could but see those children."

"I would not see them; I would not; I could not. Charlotte, you don't know what bygone memories are to an old man like me. I could never see either the mother or the children. Lottie, tell me nothing more about them; if you love me never mention their names to me. They recall too much, and I am weak and old. I will help them; yes, before God I promise to help them; but I can never either see or speak of them, they recall too much."

CHAPTER XXVI.

There was an ugly secret in the back parts of these two brothers' lives; a secret which had seemed all these years safe and buried in the grave, but over which now little lights were beginning to pour. How could Jasper plaster up the crevices and restore the thing to its silent grave? Upon this problem he pondered from morning to night.

He did not like that growing anxiety of his brother's; he could not tell to what mad act it would lead him; he did not like a new look of fear which, since her father's fainting fit, he had seen on Charlotte's smooth brow; he did not like Mrs. Home coming and boldly declaring that an injustice had been done; he felt that between them these foolish and miserable people would pull a disgraceful old secret out of its grave, unless he, Jasper Harman, could outwit them. What a blessing that that other trustee was dead and buried, and that he, Jasper Harman, had really stood over his grave. Yes, the secret which he and his brother had guarded so faithfully for over twenty years might remain for ever undiscovered if only common sense, the tiniest bit of common sense, was exercised. Jasper paced his room as he thought of this. Yes, there could be no fear, unless—here he stood still, and a cold dew of sudden terror stole over him—suppose that young woman, that wronged young woman, Charlotte Home, should take it into her head to go and read her father's will. The will could not be put away. For the small sum of one shilling she might go and master the contents, and then the whole fraud would be laid bare. Was it likely that Mrs. Home would do this? Jasper had only seen her for a moment, but during that brief glance he read determination and fixity of purpose in her eyes and mouth. He must trust that this thought would not occur to her; but what a miserable uncertainty this was to live in! He did not know that the graver danger lay still nearer home, and that his own niece Charlotte was already putting the match to this mine full of gunpowder. No, clever as he thought himself, he was looking for the danger at the front door, when it was approaching him by the back.

After many days of most anxious thought he resolved to go and see the Homes, for something must be done, and he could feel his way better if he knew something of his opponents.

Getting Mr. Home's address in the Post Office Directory, for he would not betray himself by questioning Charlotte, he started off one evening to walk to Kentish Town. He arrived in the dusk, and by good fortune or otherwise, as he liked best to term it, the curate was at home, and so far disengaged as to be able to give him a little leisure time.

Jasper sent in his card, and the little maid, Anne, showed him into the small parlor. There was a musty, unused smell in the dingy little room, for Mrs. Home was still at Torquay, and the curate during her absence mostly occupied his study. The maid, however, turned on the gas, and as she did so a small girl of four slipped in behind her. She was a very pretty child, with gray eyes and black eyelashes, and she stared in the full, frank manner of infancy at old Jasper. She was not a shy child, and felt so little fear of this good-natured, cherry-cheeked old man, that when Anne withdrew she still remained in the room.

Jasper had a surface love for children; he would not take any trouble about them, but they amused him, and he found pleasure in watching their unsophisticated ways. His good-natured, smiling face appealed to a certain part of Daisy Home, not a very high part certainly, but with the charming frankness of babyhood, the part appealed to gave utterance to its desire.

"Have 'ou brought me a present?" she demanded, running up to old Jasper and laying her hand on his knee.

"No, my dear," he replied quickly. "I'm so sorry; I forgot it."

"Did 'ou?" said Daisy, puckering her pretty brows; "Then 'ou're not like our pretty lady; she did not forget; she brought lots and lots and lots."

"I am very sorry," replied Jasper; "I will think of it next time." And then Mr. Home coming in, the two went into the little study.

"I am your wife's half-brother," said Jasper, introducing himself without preface, for he had marked out his line of action before he came.

"Indeed!" replied Mr. Home. He was not a man easily surprised, but this announcement did bring a slight color into his face. "You are Mr. Harman," he repeated. "I am sorry my wife is away. She is staying at Torquay with our eldest boy, who has been ill. She has seen your daughter."

"Not my daughter, sir, my niece—a fine girl, but Quixotic, a little fanciful and apt to take up whims, but a fine girl for all that."

"I, too, have seen Miss Harman," answered Mr. Home. "I met her once in Regent's Park, and, without knowing anything about us, she was good to our children. You must pardon me, sir, if in expressing the same opinion about her we come to it by different roads. It seems to me that the fine traits in Miss Harman's character are due to her Quixotic or unworldly spirit."

For a moment Jasper Harman felt puzzled, then he chuckled inwardly. "The man who says that, is unworldly himself, therefore unpractical. So much the better for my purpose." Aloud he said, "Doubtless you put the case best, sir; but I will not take up your valuable time discussing my niece's virtues. I have come to talk to you on a little matter of business. Your wife has told you her story?"

"My wife has certainly concealed nothing from me," replied Mr. Home.

"She has mentioned her father's very curious will?"

"His very unjust will," corrected Mr. Home.

"Yes, sir, I agree with you, it was unjust. It is to talk to you about that will I have come to you to-night."

"Sit nearer to the fire," replied Mr. Home, poking up the handful in the grate into as cheerful a blaze as circumstances would permit.

"It was, as you say, an unjust will," proceeded old Jasper, peering hard with his short-sighted eyes at the curate, and trying to read some emotion beneath his very grave exterior. Being unable to fathom the depths of a character which was absolutely above the love of money, he felt perplexed, he scarcely liked this great self-possession. Did this Home know too much? "It was an unjust will," he repeated, "and took my brother and myself considerably by surprise. Our father seemed fond of his young wife, and we fully expected that he would leave her and her child well provided for. However, my dear sir, the facts could not be disputed. Her name was not mentioned at all. The entire property was left principally to my elder brother John. He and I were partners in business. Our father's money was convenient, and enabled us to grow rich. At the time our father died we were very struggling. Perhaps the fact that the money was so necessary to us just then made us think less of the widow than we should otherwise have done. We did not, however, forget her. We made provision for her during her life. But for us she must have starved or earned her own living."

"The allowance you made was not very ample," replied Mr. Home, "and such as it was it ceased at her death."

"Yes, sir; and there I own we—my brother and I—were guilty of an act of injustice. I can only exonerate us on the plea of want of thought. Our father's widow was a young woman—younger than either of us. The child was but a baby. The widow's death seemed a very far off contingency. We placed the money we had agreed to allow her the interest on, in the hands of our solicitor. We absolutely forgot the matter. I went to Australia, my brother grew old at home. When, five or six years ago, we heard that Mrs. Harman was dead, and that our three thousand pounds could return to us, we had absolutely forgotten the child. In this I own we showed sad neglect. Your wife's visit to my niece, through a mere accident, has recalled her to our memory, and I come here to-night to say that we are willing, willing and anxious, to repay that neglect, and to settle on your wife the sum of three thousand pounds; that sum to be hers unconditionally, to do what she pleases with."

When Jasper ceased to speak, Mr. Home was quite silent for a moment, then he said, "My wife is away at present. I would rather not trouble her with money matters during her short holiday. When she returns I will tell her what you say and communicate to you the result."

There was neither exultation nor annoyance in the quiet manner in which these few words were spoken. Uncle Jasper found it impossible to understand this man. He spoke as indifferently as if three thousand pounds were nothing to him and yet, to judge from appearances, his whole yearly income seemed hardly to represent the interest on so much capital. Did this quiet manner but hide deep designs? Jasper Harman fidgeted in his chair as this thought occurred to him.

"There is just one thing more to add," he said. "I will leave you my club address. Kindly communicate with me there. I should like, while carrying out my elder brother's wish, to act entirely on it without troubling him in any way. He is, I am sorry to say, very ill, so ill that the least, the very least, agitation is dangerous to him. He feels with me the unintentional injustice done to your wife, but he cannot bear the subject alluded to.

"Would it not rather be an ease to his mind to feel that what he looks on and perhaps dwells on as a sin has been expiated, as far as his own earthly act can expiate it?" inquired the clergyman gently.

"He shall know it, but from my lips. I should like him best to hear it from me," said Jasper Harman.

A few moments after, he went away, Mr. Home accompanying him to the hall door. The strong light of the gas lamp fell on his ruddy face and sandy hair. He bade his host good-bye, and hurried down the street, never observing that a man, much larger and much rougher than himself, was bearing down upon him. It was raining, and the large man had an umbrella up. The two came full tilt against each other. Jasper felt his breath taken away, and could only gasp out a word of remonstrance and apology.

But the other, in a full, round, cheery voice, replied, "I'm home from the Colonies, stranger—you need not mention a tiff like that to me. Bless you! I guess you got the worst of it."

He passed on with a laugh, never noticing that he had left Jasper standing in the middle of the road, gasping indeed now, but from a different cause. He put his hand to his heart. He felt his breath come too fast for comfort. What had come to him? Had he seen a ghost?

CHAPTER XXVII.

The baby was now nearly ten months old. His beauty had increased with his growing months, and many people turned to look at the lovely little fellow as Anne gayly wheeled him along. He had a great deal of hair, which showed in soft golden rings under his cap, and his eyes, large and gentle as a gazelle's, looked calmly out of his innocent face. Daisy, too, was quite pretty enough to come in for her share of admiration, and Anne felt proud of both her little charges.

Reaching the park, she wheeled the perambulator under the shade of a great tree, and sitting down herself on a bench, took little Angus in her arms. Daisy scampered about and inquired when her namesakes, the starry daisies of the field, would be there for her to gather.

As the little child played and shouted with delight, and the baby and small maid looked on, a stout, florid-faced man of foreign appearance, passing slowly by, was attracted by the picturesque group. Daisy had flung off her shabby little hat. Her bright hair was in wild confusion. Her gray eyes looked black beneath their dark lashes. Running full tilt across the stranger's path, she suddenly stumbled and fell. He stooped to pick her up. She hardly thanked him, but flew back to Anne. The foreign-looking man, however, stood still. Daisy's piquant little face had caused him to start and change color.

"Good gracious! what a likeness," he exclaimed, and he turned and sat down on the bench beside Anne and the baby.

"I hope the little thing didn't get hurt by that fall," he said to the small maid.

Anne, who was accustomed to having all admiration bestowed on her baby, replied briefly that missy was right enough. As she spoke she turned baby Angus round so that the stranger might see his radiant little face. The dark eyes, however, of the pretty boy had no attraction for the man. He still watched Daisy, who had resumed her amusements at a little distance.

Anne, who perceived that Daisy had attracted the stranger's admiration, was determined to stay to watch the play out. She pretended to amuse little Angus, but her eyes took furtive glances at the foreign-looking man. Presently Daisy, who was not at all shy, came up.

"You never thanked me for picking you up from the ground," said the stranger to the little girl.

Four year old Daisy turned up her eyes to his face.

"I wor so busy," she apologized. "T'ank 'ou now."

The light on her face, her very expression, caused this rough-looking man's heart to beat strangely. He held out his hand. Daisy put her soft little palm into his.

"Come and sit on my knee," he said.

Daisy accepted the invitation with alacrity. She dearly liked attention, and it was not often, with baby by, that she came in for the lion's share.

"What a funny red beard you have!" she said, putting up a small finger to touch it delicately.

This action, however, scandalized Anne, who, awaking to a sudden sense of her responsibilities, rose to depart.

"Come along, Miss Daisy," she exclaimed; "'tis time we was a-moving home, and you mustn't trouble the gentleman no further, missy."

"I s'ant go home, and I will stay," responded Daisy, her face growing very red as she clung to her new friend. The man put his arm round her in delight.

"Sit down, my girl," he said, addressing Anne, "the little miss is not troubling me. Quite the contrary, she reminds me of a little lassie I used to know once, and she had the same name too, Daisy. Daisy Wilson was her name. Now this little kid is so like her that I shouldn't a bit wonder if she was a relation—perhaps her daughter. Shall I tell you what your two names are, little one?"

Daisy nodded her head and looked up expectantly. Anne, hoping no harm was done, and devoured with curiosity, resumed her seat.

"Your mamma's name was Daisy Wilson. You are her dear little daughter, and your name is Daisy Harman. Well, I'm right, ain't I?" The man's face was now crimson, and he only waited for Daisy's reply to clasp her to his breast. But Daisy, in high delight at his mistake, clapped her pretty hands.

"No, no," she said, "you're quite wrong. Guess again, guess again."

Instantly his interest and excitement died out. He pushed the child a trifle away, and said,—

"I made a mistake. I can't guess."

"I'm Daisy Home," replied Daisy, "and my mamma was never no Daisy Wilson. Her name is Sarlotte Home."

The stranger put Daisy gently from his lap, and the discovery which was to affect so many people might never have been made but for Anne, who read the Family Herald, was burning with anxiety and wonder. Many kinds of visions were flashing before her romantic young eyes. This man might be very rich—very, very rich. He must have something to say to them all. She had long ago identified herself with the Home family. This man was coming to give them gold in abundance. He was not so beautiful to look at, but he might be just as valuable as the pretty lady of Harold's dreams. That pretty lady had not come back, though Anne had almost prayed for her return. Yes, she was sure this man was a relation. It was highly probable. Such things were always happening in the Family Herald. Raising her shrill, high-pitched voice, she exclaimed,—

"Miss Daisy, you're too young to know, or may be you furgets. But I think the gen'leman is near right. Yer mamma's name wos Harman afore she married yer papa, missy, and I ha' seen fur sure and certain in some old books at the house the name o' Daisy Wilson writ down as plain as could be, so maybe that wor yer grandma's name afore she married too."

At these words the stranger caught Daisy up and kissed her.

"I thought that little face could only belong to one related to Daisy Wilson," he said. "Little one, put yer arms round me. I'm your great-uncle—your great-uncle! I never thought that Daisy Wilson could have a daughter married, and that that daughter could have little ones of her own. Well, well, well, how time does fly! I'm your grandmother's brother—Sandy Wilson, home from Australia, my little pet; and when shall I see you all? It does my old heart good to see my sister over again in a little thing like you."

"My great-uncle?" repeated Daisy. She was an affectionate little thing, and the man's agitation and delight so far touched her baby heart as to induce her to give him one very slight, dainty kiss. Then she sidled down to the ground.

"Ef you please, sir," said Anne again, who felt absolutely certain that she had now made the fortune of her family, and who thought that that fact ought to be recognised—"ef you please, sir, 'tis but right as you should know as my missis's mother have long bin dead. My missis as is her living model is away, and won't be back afore Thursday. She's down by the seaside wid Master Harold wot' ad the scarlet fever, and wor like to die; and the fam'ly address, please sir, is 10, Tremins Road, Kentish Town."

At the news of his sister's death so curtly announced by Anne, the man's rough, weatherbeaten face grew white. He did not touch Daisy again, or even look at little Angus; but going up to Anne, he slipped a sovereign into her hand.

"Take those children safely home now," he said; "the day is turning chilly, and—and—thank you for what you told me of, my good lass. I'll come and see your missis on Thursday night."

Then, without another word, he hurried away.

Quickly this big, rough man, who had nearly knocked down Jasper Harman the night before, hurried through the park. The exultation had died out of his face; his heart had ceased to beat wildly. Little Daisy's pretty figure was still before his eyes; but, weatherbeaten and lifebeaten man that he was, he found himself looking at it through a mist of tears. "'Tis a bit of a shock," he said to himself. "I'll take it quietly, of course. Sandy Wilson learned long ago to take everything quietly; but it's a rare bit of a shock. I never guessed as my little Daisy would die. Five and twenty years since we met, and all that time I've never once clasped the hand of a blood-relation—never had one belonging to me. I thought I was coming back to Daisy, and Daisy has died. She was very young to die—quite five years younger than me. A pretty, pretty lass; the little 'un is her image. How odd I should have knocked up against Daisy's grandchild, and should find her out by the likeness. Well, well, I'll call at 10, Tremins Road. I'll call, of course; not that I care much now, as my little sister Daisy Wilson is dead."

He pressed his hand before his eyes; they felt weak and dim. The rough man had got a considerable shock; he did not care to look at London sights again to-day; he returned to the Commercial Hotel in the Strand, where for the present he was staying.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

Never was a little maid-of-all-work more excited than Anne on the night on which her mistress was expected home from Torquay. A secret—quite a great secret—had been burning a hole in her heart ever since Monday, and to-night she expected this secret to result in something grand. Anne felt that the days of poverty for the family were over; the days for scraping and toiling were at an end. The uncle from Australia would give her missis everything that money could buy; he must be a very rich man indeed, for had he not given her a sovereign? Whoever before had even dreamed of giving little hard-worked Anne a sovereign? It meant unheard-of wealth to this childish soul of sixteen; it filled her with delight, and, carefully put away in a little gingham bag, it lay golden and warm now against her heart.

But Anne's honest little heart had another and less selfish cause for rejoicing. It was she who was bringing this uncle and niece to meet again; but for her prompt interference Daisy and her great-uncle would never have discovered their relationship; but for her the uncle, so blessed with riches, would not have known where to seek for his niece. In a big place like London was it likely, was it at all likely, that they would meet? No, no, he would look for his poor dead sister for a little while, and then go back to Australia, and perhaps give his money to some one else. Anne felt that the family owed her a great deal; but she had full confidence in them, and felt sure that in their rise in life they would not forget her. Missis could keep plenty of servants now; she would have a cook and a housemaid, and probably some one to help in the nursery. This was what a family whom Anne thought immensely wealthy, did in a house just round the corner. In that case she, Anne, would be promoted to the proud position of head nurse—head nurse with wages—well, say wages as high as £13 a year. Even to think of being raised to so dazzling a height made Anne's head a trifle giddy. On the strength of it, and all the riches in prospect, she became quite reckless in preparing missis's tea. She put out the best table-linen, and all the silver the house possessed, and she filled a great dish with water-cresses, and had hot buttered scones and a seed-cake and eggs—rather fresh for London—and finally half a pound of sliced ham.

She was standing contemplating her well-laden board when the cab drove up, and out stepped her master and mistress and little Harold—Harold looking white and thin even yet, but still with an altogether improved expression on his little face. Anne was so excited, knowing all that was to come, that she caught Harold up in her arms and kissed him, which proceeding he bore with more patience than appreciation. Then ensued bustle and confusion and pleasant excitement. Charlotte Home felt so well and rested from her change, her husband was so delighted to have her back, and little Harold was so manifestly better, that Anne flew about nearly wild with delight. "They'll be a deal, deal 'appier by-and-by, and 'tis hall 'long of HAnne," she kept whispering to herself.

And now, tea being over, and Harold tucked up comfortably once more in his own little cot in the nursery, the small maid began to be devoured with impatience for the expected ring. It came at last; Anne with her own hands unfastened the door, showed the rich uncle into the dining-room, and danced upstairs to find her mistress. Charlotte Home was unpacking a trunk in her own room.

"What do you say, Anne? A gentleman is downstairs, and wants to see me? But I am so dreadfully busy. What does he want? Do you think he has come about the drawing-rooms? They will be vacant next week."

"I don't think 'tis about the drawing-rooms, 'em," answered Anne as demurely as she could speak. "I 'avent put no card hup yet. Please, 'em, he looks a most benevolent gen'leman, and he axed fur you, yer hown self, 'em, most partic'lar bad."

"I wish he had not come this evening, everything is in such confusion. Anne, are you sure your master is out?"

"Yes, 'em, sure and certain; and ef you please, 'em, it wor fur you as the strange gen'leman axed."

"Well, I suppose I must go down. He may have heard of the drawing-rooms through Mr. Hinton, and it would not do to lose a good lodger."

Charlotte went to the looking-glass to smooth her hair. She felt travel-stained and dusty; she was only a worn, pale-looking woman at the best of times. She ran downstairs, and Anne's heart beat as she heard the dining-room door shut behind her.

Mr. Wilson—Sandy Wilson as he preferred to be called—had got himself up with due care for his interview with his niece. He had a perfectly new and shining broadcloth suit on, a diamond pin was in his necktie, and a very massive gold chain could be seen dangling from his vest pocket. His full face, always florid, was now flushed with extra color from agitation. Yes, Daisy might be dead, but the next best thing was to see Daisy's child. When the door opened he came forward eagerly, with outstretched hands. A pale, slight, cold-looking woman had come in. He drew back in dismay. She showed but too plainly by one swift glance that she thought him a stranger, and a vulgar one. He owned to himself that he looked at her with a kind of shock. This Daisy Wilson's Daughter? This pale, dark, thin woman the child of that little, bright, curly-locked, golden-headed sister, whose face was as the sun, whose gay, rounded figure he had seen flitting before his eyes during all the weary years of his exile? It could scarcely be possible. Perhaps it was not possible?

"I have come to see Mrs. Home," he began.

"And I am Mrs. Home," answered the distinct, quiet voice.

No, there was no hope; his Daisy's daughter was not in the least like her. Well, she was at least her child. He must take what comfort he could out of the relationship without the likeness.

"You are Daisy's Wilson's child?" he said, and now again his hands were outstretched, and the smiles had returned to his face.

But Mrs. Home, completely in the dark, rather startled than otherwise, made no gesture of welcome. Her hands were not held out, her lips remained unsmiling.

"My mother's name was Wilson," she admitted. "Yes, it was Daisy Wilson. I did not recognize it at first, as of course she was never called it to me."

"Ay, ay, likely enough; but she was never anything else to me, just always little bright Daisy Wilson. I thought I'd find her before me, something as she used to be, a bit stoutened, perhaps, but not greatly altered. I have pictured her for the last six and twenty years just as I saw her last the bonniest bit of a thing the sun ever shone on."

"You knew my mother then?" said Charlotte.

"Knew her, lass, knew her! good heavens, what next? Did Daisy never speak to you about me? I don't believe it. Before I left it was 'Sandy, Sandy,' from morning to night. It was not in her to forget. Tell me, lass, did you never hear of your mother's big brother, Sandy Wilson who went to Australia?"

Charlotte's eyes began to dilate.

"My mother often spoke of this brother," she said slowly. "My mother would have liked to have met you, had you known him. She never fretted for any one so much, except when my father died. My mother's brother is dead for many, many years. They are together now."

"In spirit, lass, in spirit, I doubt not, but not otherwise. Why, is it possible you don't know me? Aren't you prepared? Did not your little lass tell you? I am your mother's brother, I am alive, as you see; I am Sandy Wilson."

"You!" Charlotte looked at him half incredulous, half pained; but then a sudden joy came over her, she forgot the vulgarity in the love for her dead mother which still shone out of those honest blue eyes. She glanced up again; those eyes were her mother's eyes; instantly they acted as open sesame to her heart. She held out her own hands now and her eyes filled with tears. "Forgive me, Uncle Sandy; if you are indeed he. I did not know you, I could not know you; I have believed you dead for many, many years. But you have a look of my mother. She would welcome you to-night, so I must in her name."

"Will you kiss me in her name, my lassie? Ah! that's good; 'tis long since I kissed one of my own. Yes, I've come back. I never did die, you see, though I knew that the report had reached England. I let it be, I did not trouble to contradict it."

"But it was wrong of you, Uncle Sandy. You said you loved my mother, and that report of your death gave her terrible pain."

"I am sorry for it, lass; I never guessed about the pain, though I might have thought of it, sweet soul; but I knew she was married to a very rich man. I was poor, so poor as to know what hunger meant, I thought she could do without me. I went up into the bush and stayed there until I had made my fortune. After a time I got accustomed to knowing that every one in England would think me dead. I used to laugh in my sleeve at the surprise I meant to give Daisy when I walked in rich some day. Well, well, what an old fool I made of myself! I never once thought of her dying. She is dead, and I am left; there's no one to welcome me back, after all."

"She has been dead for over six years now; but come to the fire, uncle. I welcome you in my mother's name, and my children will love you. Now you must sit there and I will ring for Anne to bring in some tea."

After this the uncle and niece talked together for some time. Anne brought in the tea, and looked at them with eyes rendered round and large from excitement. They both nodded to her, for both felt pleased. Uncle Sandy had discovered that his niece had a voice like her mother, if not a face. It was delicious to him to sit so close to his own flesh and blood, and Charlotte, who had heard of Uncle Sandy during all her early days, who had seen her mother's eyes filling with tears when she mentioned him, felt now that for her mother's sake she could not make enough of this newly recovered relation. His rough, honest, kindly nature was finding its way too, very straight, to her heart. There was nothing innately common or vulgar about Uncle Sandy. Charlotte was a keen observer of character, and she detected the ring of the true metal within.

"To think I should have mistaken my uncle for some one going to see after the drawing-rooms!" she said after a pause.

"Ay, lass, you looked fairly dazed when I came up with my hand stretched out, hoping for a kiss," he said; "but no wonder: I never reckoned that that little maid-servant of yours would have told you nothing—nothing whatever. But what is that about drawing-rooms? You don't mean to tell me that you, Daisy Wilson's child, let lodgings?"

The color flew into Charlotte's pale, proud face.

"We do not need all the room in this house, so I generally have some one in the drawing-room," she answered—"the drawing-room and the bedroom beyond."

"Are your rooms free now, Charlotte?"

"No; but in a week they will be."

"Suppose you let the old uncle have them? I will pay any rent you like to ask. The fact is, I have lost my whole heart to that little Daisy of yours. I want to be near the child. I won't spoil her more than I can help."

"Then I was called down to my drawing-room lodger," answered Charlotte with a faint sweet smile.

"Yes, and I don't expect he will want to leave in a hurry. The fact is I have been so utterly friendless and homeless for such a number of years, that it is nearly as good as finding Daisy to be with her child. But, my dear lass, you will forgive a frank old man asking you a frank question. It's all moonshine about the house being too big for you. These houses are not so very monstrous, to judge by the looks of them. You have three children, so you tell me; if you let two rooms you must be a bit crippled, put as good a face on it as you will."

"We also want the money. The want of the help this brings in, in the matter of rent, is our true reason for letting," replied Charlotte. "You see, Uncle Sandy, my husband is a clergyman—a clergyman and curate. Such men are never over-burdened with money."

Sandy Wilson had small, penetrating, but very bright blue eyes; they were fixed now earnestly on his niece. He took a glance round the little parlor where they sat. He was an old Australian, accustomed to bush life, but even he noticed how threadbare was the carpet, how poor and meagre the window curtains. Charlotte herself, too, how thin and worn she was! Could those pale and hollow cheeks mean insufficient food?

"How old are you, niece Charlotte?" he suddenly demanded.

"I was twenty-five my last birthday."

"Forgive me, my lass, you look very old for that; I should have taken you for thirty. The fact is you are poor, nothing ages like poverty. And the greater fact remains that it was full time for old Uncle Sandy to come home and prove himself of some use in the world."

"We are poor," answered Charlotte; "we certainly are very poor. But poverty is not the greatest of troubles."

"No, but it puzzles me why you should be poor. When I left my little sister, she had been married about three months to that rich old Mr. Harman. He seemed devoted to her. He had surrounded her with wealth; and he assured me when I came to bid her good-bye, and she put her dear arms round my neck, that my little darling should never want for anything. He was a good old man, ages too old of course for my bright little Daisy. But it seemed better than leaving her as a governess. It was my one comfort when parting with Daisy, to feel that she could never want for anything that money could get her."

"My mother has told me that during my father's life she lived as a rich woman," answered Charlotte.

"That means she did not afterwards. Did the old gentleman die bankrupt? I don't see how he could, for he had retired from business."

"No, my father died a very wealthy man."

"Then he did not leave her well off! You don't surely mean to tell me, Charlotte Home, that that old man dared to do anything but leave a large sum of money to your pretty young mother and to you? Why, be told me with his own lips that he would make most ample provision for her."

At these words Charlotte's white face grew yet whiter, and a piteous look of terror came into her eyes, but all she said was,—

"Nevertheless, after my father's death we were poor."

"Oh! the scoundrel! 'Tis well he's out of Sandy Wilson's power. To think of my Daisy not profiting by his wealth at least. How much did he leave to your mother, Charlotte?

"Nothing."

"Nothing!" Here Uncle Sandy sprang to his feet. "Mr. Harman left my Daisy nothing—nothing whatever! Then he did die bankrupt?"

"No, Uncle Sandy, he died rich."

"And her name was not mentioned in the will?"

"No."

"Ah! there was a will. Have you seen it?"

"No; why should I? It all happened long, long ago."

"And your mother never saw the will?"

"I don't think she did."

"Then to whom, may I ask, did he leave all his wealth?"

"You forget, Uncle Sandy, that my father was married before. He had two sons by his first marriage. These sons came in for his fortune. They were—they said they were, sorry for my mother, and they settled on her one hundred and fifty pounds a year for her life."

"Ay, I suppose you have got that pittance now?"

"No, it was only for my mother. When she died six years ago it ceased."

Sandy Wilson began to pace up and down the little parlor.

"Nothing left to Daisy. Daisy's name not mentioned in the will. Brothers sorry—pretend to be. Give my Daisy a pittance for her life—nothing to the child. Charlotte," he suddenly stopped in front of his niece, "don't you think you are a good bit of a fool?"

"Perhaps I am, Uncle Sandy. But I never recognized the fact before."

"You believe that story about the will?"

"I tell you the tale as my own mother told it to me."

"Ay, Daisy was always too credulous, a foolish little thing, if you like. But you—you are of different metal. You believe that story?"

"I—I—Don't ask me, Uncle Sandy."

"You do not believe it?"

"If you will have it so, I do not believe it."

"Ay, my lass, shake hands on that. You are not a fool. Oh! it was full time Sandy Wilson came home. Sandy can see to your rights, late as it is in the day."

Mrs. Home was silent. The old Australian was stamping his feet on the hearthrug. His face was now crimson from excitement and anger.

"Charlotte," he repeated, "why don't you speak to me? I have come back to see to your rights. Do you hear me, niece?"

Charlotte put her hand into his.

"Thank you, Uncle Sandy." Then she added, "You can do nothing. I mean you can take no legal steps without my knowledge and sanction."

"Well, it is not likely you will withhold your sanction from getting back what is your own. Charlotte, where are these half-brothers of yours? Why, they were a good bit older than Daisy. They must be old men now. Where are they, Charlotte? Are they alive?"

"They are alive. I will tell you about them to-morrow. I want to think to-night."

"And so do I want to think. I will run away now, my dear niece. I am staggered by this tale, perfectly staggered. I will look in to-morrow evening, and you shall tell me more. Ay, I guess they never reckoned that Sandy Wilson would turn up. They thought with the rest of you that old Sandy—sharp old Sandy was safe in his grave, and they said to themselves that dead men tell no tales. If I remember aright, your father told me I should be one of the trustees to my sister. He did mention it; though, just like me, I never thought of it until this minute. Is it likely that he would speak of trustees if he meant to cut off that poor darling with a shilling? Oh! it's preposterous, preposterous. But I'll sleep over it. We'll think how best to expose the villains!"

"Uncle Sandy, you will promise me one thing: you will do nothing until you see me again?"

"Well, child, I can scarcely do much. I don't want to be long away from you, niece Charlotte. I'll look in to-morrow, about six o'clock. See that little Daisy is up, and introduce me to your husband. Oh! it was plain to be seen that Sandy Wilson was wanting in this country. Bless my old heart, what a Providence is over everything! Oh, the scoundrels! But Sandy will expose them. My Daisy cut off with a shilling!"