Yes; her father had stolen that money; would I like to see him? he lived in such a place; his name was so-and-so. Yes; she was his only child. Her manner was so reckless, so defiant, and yet so full of absolute misery, that I could do nothing but pity her from my very heart. I forgot you, Niece Lottie, and your rights, and everything but this fine creature stricken so low through another's sins. I said, 'Hush, you shall say no more to-day. You are stunned, you are shocked, you must have time to think; I won't remember a thing you say about your father now. Go home and come back again to-morrow,' I said; 'sleep over it, and I will sleep over it, and I will meet you here to-morrow, when you are more calm.' She agreed to this and went away. I felt a little compunction for my own softness during that evening and night, Niece Charlotte, I felt that I was not quite true to you; but then you had not seen her face, poor brave young thing, poor young thing!" Here Uncle Sandy paused and looked hard from his niece to her husband. Charlotte's eyes were full of tears, Mr. Home was smiling at him. There was something peculiar in this man's rare smiles which turned them into blessings. They were far more eloquent than words, for they were fed from some illumination of strong approval within. Uncle Sandy, without understanding, felt a warm glow instantly kindling in his heart. Charlotte said, "Go on," in a broken voice. "To-day, at the appointed hour, I met her again," proceeded the Australian. "She was changed, she was composed enough now, she was on her guard, she did not win my sympathy so much as in her despair. She was quite open, however, as to the nature of the crime committed, and told me she knew well what a sin her father had been guilty of. Suddenly she startled me by saying that she knew you, Charlotte. She said she wished she could see you now. I asked her why. She said, 'That I might go down on my knees to her.' I was surprised at such words coming from so proud a creature. I said so. She repeated that she would go down on her knees that she might the better plead for mercy. I was beginning to harden my old heart at that, and to think badly of her, when she stopped me, by telling me a strange and sad thing. She said that she had discovered something, something very terrible, between that hour and yesterday. Her father had been ill for some time, but the worst had been kept from her. She said yesterday that a poor person let her know quite accidentally that he was not only ill but dying. She went alone that morning to consult a doctor, one of those first-rate doctors whose word is law. Mr. Harman, it seemed, unknown to her, was one of this man's patients. He told her that he was hopelessly ill; that he could only live for a few months, and that any shock might end his days in a moment. She then told this doctor in confidence something of what she had discovered yesterday. He said, 'As his medical man, I forbid you to