tly 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