The afternoon post brings it. The delicious spring day has worn itself almost to a close when Monkton, entering his wife's room, where she is busy at a sewing machine altering a frock for Mabel, drops a letter over her shoulder into her lap. "What a queer looking letter," says she, staring in amazement at the big official blue envelope. "Ah--ha, I thought it would make you shiver," says he, lounging over to the fire, and nestling his back comfortably against the mantle-piece. "What have you been up to I should like to know. No wonder you are turning a lively purple." "But what can it be?" says she. "That's just it," says he teazingly. "I hope they aren't going to arrest you, that's all. Five years' penal servitude is not a thing to hanker after." Mrs. Monkton, however, is not listening to this tirade. She has broken open the envelope and is now scanning hurriedly the contents of the important-looking document within. There is a pause--a lengthened one. Presently Barbara rises from her seat, mechanically, as it were, always with her eyes fixed on the letter in her hand. She has grown a little pale--a little puzzled frown is contracting her forehead. "Freddy!" says she in a rather strange tone. "What?" says he quickly. "No more bad news I hope." "Oh, no! Oh, yes! I can't quite make it out--but--I'm afraid my poor uncle is dead." "Your uncle?" "Yes, yes. My father's brother. I think I told you about him. He went abroad years ago, and we--Joyce and I, believed him dead a long time ago, long before I married you even--but now----Come here and read it. It is worded so oddly that it puzzles me." "Let me see it," says Monkton. He sinks into an easy-chair, and drags her down on to his knee, the better to see over her shoulder. Thus satisfactorily arranged, he begins to read rapidly the letter she holds up before his eyes. "Yes, dead indeed," says he sotto voce. "Go on, turn over; you mustn't fret about that, you know. Barbara--er--er--" reading. "What's this? By Jove!" "What?" says his wife anxiously. "What is the meaning of this horrid letter, Freddy?" "There are a few people who might not call it horrid," says Monkton, placing his arm round her and rising from the chair. He is looking very grave. "Even though it brings you news of your poor uncle's death, still it brings you too the information that you are heiress to about a quarter of a million!" "What!" says Barbara faintly. And then, "Oh no. Oh! nonsense! there must be some mistake!" "Well, it sounds like it at all events. 'Sad occurrence,' h'm--h'm----" reading. "'Co-heiresses. Very considerable fortune.'" He looks to the signature of the letter. "Hodgson & Fair. Very respectable firm! My father has had dealings with them. They say your uncle died in Sydney, and has left behind him an immense sum of money. Half a million, in fact, to which you and Joyce are co-heiresses." "There must be a mistake," repeats Barbara, in a low tone. "It seems too like a fairy tale."