lorid, 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 ye