"To think I should have mistaken my uncle for some one going to see after the drawing-rooms!" she said after a pause. "Ay, lass, you looked fairly dazed when I came up with my hand stretched out, hoping for a kiss," he said; "but no wonder: I never reckoned that that little maid-servant of yours would have told you nothing--nothing whatever. But what is that about drawing-rooms? You don't mean to tell me that you, Daisy Wilson's child, let lodgings?" The color flew into Charlotte's pale, proud face. "We do not need all the room in this house, so I generally have some one in the drawing-room," she answered--"the drawing-room and the bedroom beyond." "Are your rooms free now, Charlotte?" "No; but in a week they will be." "Suppose you let the old uncle have them? I will pay any rent you like to ask. The fact is, I have lost my whole heart to that little Daisy of yours. I want to be near the child. I won't spoil her more than I can help." "Then I _was_ called down to my drawing-room lodger," answered Charlotte with a faint sweet smile. "Yes, and I don't expect he will want to leave in a hurry. The fact is I have been so utterly friendless and homeless for such a number of years, that it is _nearly_ as good as finding Daisy to be with her child. But, my dear lass, you will forgive a frank old man asking you a frank question. It's all moonshine about the house being too big for you. These houses are not so very monstrous, to judge by the looks of them. You have three children, so you tell me; if you let two rooms you must be a bit crippled, put as good a face on it as you will." "We also want the money. The want of the help this brings in, in the matter of rent, is our true reason for letting," replied Charlotte. "You see, Uncle Sandy, my husband is a clergyman--a clergyman and curate. Such men are never over-burdened with money." Sandy Wilson had small, penetrating, but very bright blue eyes; they were fixed now earnestly on his niece. He took a glance round the little parlor where they sat. He was an old Australian, accustomed to bush life, but even he noticed how threadbare was the carpet, how poor and meagre the window curtains. Charlotte herself, too, how thin and worn she was! Could those pale and hollow cheeks mean insufficient food? "How old are you, niece Charlotte?" he suddenly demanded. "I was twenty-five my last birthday." "Forgive me, my lass, you look very old for that; I should have taken you for thirty. The fact is you are poor, nothing ages like poverty. And the greater fact remains that it was full time for old Uncle Sandy to come home and prove himself of some use in the world." "We are poor," answered Charlotte; "we certainly are very poor. But poverty is not the greatest of troubles."