I was married, and
my eldest child was born. A poor man had made me, a poor girl his wife,
and, Miss Harman, let me tell you, that wives and mothers do long for
money. The longing with them is scarcely selfish, it is for the beings
dearer than themselves. There is a pain beyond words in denying your
little child what you know is for that child's good, but yet which you
cannot give because of your empty purse; there is a pain in seeing your
husband shivering in too thin a coat on bitter winter nights. You know
nothing of such things--may you never know them; but they have gone
quite through my heart, quite, quite through it. Well, that is my story;
not much, you will say, after all. I might have been rich, I am poor,
that is my story."

"It interests me," said Miss Harman, drawing a long breath, "it
interests me greatly; but you will pardon my expressing my real
feelings: I think your father was a cruel and unjust man."

"I think my brothers, my half-brothers, were cruel and unjust. I don't
believe that was my father's real will."

"What! you believe there was foul play? This is interesting--if so, if
you can prove it, you may be righted yet. Are your half-brothers
living?"

"Yes."

"And you think you have proof that you and your mother were unjustly
treated?"

"I have no proof, no proof whatever, Miss Harman, I have only
suspicions."

"Oh! you will tell me what they are?"

"Even they amount to very little, and yet I feel them to be certainties.
On the night before my father died he told my mother that she and I
would be comfortably off; he also said that he wished that I and his
son's little daughter, that other Charlotte he called her, should grow
up together as sisters. My father was a good man, his mind was not
wandering at all, why should he on his deathbed have said this if he
knew that he had made such an unjust will, if he knew that he had left
my mother and her little child without a sixpence?"

"Yes," said Miss Harman slowly and thoughtfully, "it looks strange."

After this for a few moments both these young women were silent. Mrs.
Home's eyes again sought the fire, she had told her story, the
excitement was over, and a dull despair came back over her face.
Charlotte Harman, on the contrary, was deep in that fine speculation
which seeks to succor the oppressed, her grey eyes glowed, and a faint
color came in to her cheeks. After a time she said--

"I should like to help you to get your rights. Y