"He stood on the grave of Sandy Wilson, but never on mine," answered the other trustee. "There was a fellow bearing my name, who was with me in the Bush. He was the same age. He was like me too in general outline; big, with red hair and all that kind of thing. His name was put into the papers, and I remember wondering if the news would reach home, and if my little Daisy--bless her!--would think it was me. I was frightfully poor at the time, I had scarcely sixpence to bless myself with, and somehow, your father, sir, though he did eventually trust me, as circumstances proved, yet he gave me to understand that in marrying the sister he by no means intended to take the brother to his bosom. I said to myself, 'A poor lost dog like Sandy may as well appear to be dead to those at home. I love no one in England but my little Daisy, and she does not need me, she has abundance without me.' So I ceased to write. I had gone to a part of the country where even an English paper reached us but once or twice a year. I heard nothing of the old home; and by degrees I got out of the habit of writing. I was satisfied to be considered dead. I did wrong, I confess." "By coming back, by proclaiming your existence, you could have exposed me years ago," said Mr. Harman; "how I dreaded exposure; how little I knew, when it did come, that it would fall lightly in comparison with----" "What?" asked Wilson. "The awful frown of God's displeasure. Man, to be shut away from God through your own sin is to be in hell. I have dwelt there for three and twenty years. Until two nights ago, I have known no peace; now, I know God can forgive even such a sin as mine." "I believe you have suffered, Mr. Harman," answered Wilson. "For the matter of that, we are all poor sinners. God have mercy upon us all!" "Amen," said Mr. Harman. And that was all the reproof Sandy ever found in his heart to give to his fellow trustee. CHAPTER LVI. MRS. HOME'S DREAM.