"That is a question easier to ask than answer. I was quite content, and as happy as I ever expect to be, before this money came. What more can I hope to be now?" "And you say that you never even saw this uncle of yours who has remembered you so handsomely in his will?" queried Anna, as soon as they were indoors. "Not so far as my memory serves me, although I believe he saw me when I was an infant. He emigrated when I was about three years old. My mother, who was his favorite sister, heard from him at long intervals for a period of seven or eight years. Then followed a silence which, so far as I am aware, was never broken, and at home the belief gradually grew up among us that he was dead." "Possibly, if your cousin had not seen the advertisement in the _Times_, you would never have known anything about your legacy?" "I think that very probable indeed. I was advertised for under my maiden name, and except my cousin (who, I believe, prides himself on the fact that nothing in the _Times_ escapes him), few, if any, of those now living who knew me before my marriage would be likely to see it, or, if they should see it, would know where to find me." Although Mrs. Jenwyn had made up her mind to a certain course, she seemed in no special hurry to carry her purpose into effect. Indeed, she was one of those women who never appear to hurry; she could always afford to bide her time. Besides, in the present case, a few days--or, for that matter, a few weeks or a few months--would make no difference. She told herself that she would not make an opportunity, but wait till one should come to her. Perhaps she was not without a lingering doubt as to the spirit in which Anna might receive her communication, and was not disinclined to let matters go on as they were for a little while longer. Of one thing she felt sure--that nothing could ever be quite the same as it had been when once her lips should have been unsealed and her secret have passed from her own keeping. Her opportunity, or what seemed such, came on a certain afternoon when the weather, would not admit of their going out, and she and Anna were seated by the window, one busy with her sewing, the other with her knitting. The maid had just been in to ask leave to go and visit her mother, who was said to be dying. The girl had been in deep distress. "I have sometimes wondered, Tetta," said Anna presently, "whether it is harder for a mother to lose her child or for a child to lose its mother. I am not referring to cases like Charlotte's, where the child is grown up; although, if tears are anything to go by, she seems extremely attached to her mother."