me,
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