"Father, is that you?" he called through the semi-light. "Yes, my boy. Is anything the matter? Why are you not asleep?" "I couldn't, father dear; I'm so longing for to-morrow. I want to blow my new trumpet again, and to see the rest of the brown-paper parcels. Father, do come over to me for a moment." Mr. Home came, and put his arm round the little neck. "Did mother tell you that _our_ pretty lady came to-day, and brought such a splendid lot of things?" "Whose pretty lady, my boy?" "_Ours_, father--the lady you, and I, and Daisy, and baby met in the park yesterday. You said it was rude to kiss her, and _she_ did not mind. She gave me dozens and dozens of kisses to-day." "She was very kind to you," said Mr. Home. Then, bidding the child lie down and sleep, he left him and went on to his own room. He was going to his room with a purpose. That purpose was quickened into intensity by little Harold's words. That frank, fearless, sweet-looking girl was Miss Harman! That letter was, therefore, not to be wondered at. It was the kind of letter he would have expected such a woman to write. What was the matter with his Lottie? In his perplexity he knelt down; he remained upon his knees for about ten minutes, then he returned to the little parlor. The answer to his earnest prayer was given to him almost directly. His wife was no longer proud and cold. She looked up the moment he entered, and said,-- "You are angry with me, Angus." "No, my darling," he answered, "not angry, but very sorry for you." "You must not be sorry for me. You have anxieties enough. I must not add to them. Not all the Miss Harmans that ever breathe shall bring a cloud between you and me. Angus, may I put out the gas and then sit close to you? You shall talk me out of this feeling, for I do feel bad." "I will talk all night if it makes you better, my own Lottie. Now, what is troubling you?" "In the first instance, you don't seem to believe this story about our money." "I neither believe it, nor the reverse--I simply don't let it trouble me." "But, Angus, that seems a little hard; for if the money was left to me by my father I ought to have it. Think what a difference it would make to us all--you, and me, and the children?" "We should be rich instead of poor. It would make that difference, certainly." "Angus, you talk as if this difference was nothing." "Nothing! It is not quite nothing; but I confess it does not weigh much with me." "If not for yourself, it might for the children's sakes; think what a difference money would make to our darlings." "My dear wife, you quite forgot when speaking so, that they are God's little children as well as ours. He has said that not a sparrow falls without His loving knowledge. Is it likely when that is so, that He will see His children and ours either gain or suffer from such a paltry thing as money?" "Then you will do nothing to get back our own?"