omes 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. Jas