letter. Poor Charlotte was like a second
mother to them. She'll never be the same woman again. Never!"

"I should like to see the letter," said Miss Lindsay, musingly.

Mr. Barrett suppressed a start. "I should like to show it to you," he
said, "but I'm afraid I have destroyed it. It made me shudder every time
I looked at it."

"It's a pity," said the girl, dryly. "I should have liked to see it.
I've got my own idea about the matter. Are you sure she was very fond of
them?"

"She lived only for them," said Mr. Barrett, in a rapt voice.

"Exactly. I don't believe they are drowned at all," said Miss Lindsay,
suddenly. "I believe you have had all this terrible anguish for nothing.
It's too cruel."

Mr. Barrett stared at her in anxious amazement.

"I see it all now," continued the girl. "Their Aunt Charlotte was
devoted to them. She always had the fear that some day you would return
and claim them, and to prevent that she invented the story of their
death."

"Charlotte is the most truthful woman that ever breathed," said the
distressed Mr. Barrett.

Miss Lindsay shook her head. "You are like all other honourable,
truthful people," she said, looking at him gravely. "You can't imagine
anybody else telling a falsehood. I don't believe you could tell one if
you tried."

Mr. Barrett gazed about him with the despairing look of a drowning
mariner.

"I'm certain I'm right," continued the girl. "I can see Charlotte
exulting in her wickedness. Why!"

"What's the matter?" inquired Mr. Barrett, greatly worried.

"I've just thought of it," said Miss Lindsay. "She's told you that your
children are drowned, and she has probably told them you are dead. A
woman like that would stick at nothing to gain her ends."

"You don't know Charlotte," said Mr. Barrett, feebly.

"I think I do," was the reply. "However, we'll make sure. I suppose
you've got friends in Melbourne?"

"A few," said Mr. Barrett, guardedly.

"Come down to the post-office and cable to one of them."

Mr. Barrett hesitated. "I'll write," he said, slowly. "It's an awkward
thing to cable; and there's no hurry. I'll write to Jack Adams,
I think."

"It's no good writing," said Miss Lindsay, firmly. "You ought to know
that."

"Why not?" demanded the other.

"Because, you foolish man," said the girl, calmly, "before your letter
got there, there would be one from Melbourne saying that he had been
choked by a fish-bone, or died of m