After the story was finished the husband and wife sat for a long time side by side, in absolute silence.  Both pairs of eyes were fixed on the glowing embers in the fire; the wife’s reflected back both the lights and the shadows; they were troubled eyes, troubled with possible joy, troubled also with the dark feelings of anger.  The husband’s, on the contrary, were calm and steady.  No strong hope was visiting them, but despair, even disquietude, seemed miles away.  Presently the wife’s small nervous fingers were stretched out to meet her husband’s, his closed over them, he turned his head, met her anxious face, smiled and spoke.

“So it seems on the cards that you might have been rich, Lottie.  Well, it was unjust of your father not to have made some provision for your mother and you, but ­but ­he has long been dead, the whole thing is over.  Let it pass.”

“Angus! do you know what I should like?” asked his wife.

“No.  What?”

“I should like to meet those two men, John and Jasper Harman, face to face, and ask them without the least preamble or preparation, what they have done with my father’s real will?”

“Dear Lottie, you must get this strange idea out of your head.  It is not right of you to harbor such thoughts of any men.”

“I should like to look so hard at them,” continued Charlotte, scarcely heeding her husband’s words.  “I know their eyes would flinch, they would be startled, they would betray themselves.  Angus, I can’t help it, the conviction that is over me is too strong to be silenced.  For years, ever since my mother told me that story, I have felt that we have been wronged, nay, robbed of our own.  But when I entered that house to-day and found myself face with my half-brother’s daughter, when I found myself in the house that I had been forbidden to enter, I felt ­I knew, that a great wrong had been committed.  My father!  Why should I think ill of my father, Angus?  Is it likely that he would have made no provision for my mother whom he loved, or for me?  Is it likely that he would have left everything he possessed to the two sons with whom he had so bitterly quarrelled, that for years they had not even met?  Is it likely?  Angus, you are a just man, and you will own to the truth.  Is it likely, that with his almost dying breath, he should have assured my mother that all was settled that she could bring me up well, in comfort and luxury, that Charlotte Harman and I should be friends?  No, Angus!  I believe my father; he was a good and just man always; and, even if he was not, dying men don’t tell lies.”

“I grant that it seems unlikely, Lottie; but then, on the other hand, what do you accuse these men of?  Why, of no less a crime than forging a will, of suppressing the real will, and bringing forward one of their own manufacture.  Why, my dear wife, such an act of villainy would be not only difficult, but, I should say, impossible.”

“I don’t know how it was done, Angus, but something was done, of that I am sure, and what that thing was I shall live, please God, to find out.”

“Then you ­you, a clergyman’s wife ­the wife of a man who lives to proclaim peace on earth, good-will to men, you go into your brother’s house as a spy!”

Mrs. Home colored.  Her husband had risen from his chair.

“You shall not do that,” he said; “I am your husband, and I forbid it.  You can only go to the Harmans, if they are indeed the near relations you believe them to be, on one condition.”

“And that?” said Charlotte.

“That you see not only Mr. Harman’s daughter, but Mr. Harman himself; that you tell him exactly who you are....  If, after hearing your story, he allows you to work for his daughter, you can do so without again alluding to the relationship.  If they wish it dropped, drop it, Lottie; work for them as you would for any other strangers, doing your best work bravely and well.  But begin openly.  Above all things thinking no evil in your heart of them.”

“Then I cannot go on these conditions, Angus, for I cannot feel charity in my heart towards Mr. Harman.  It seemed such a good thing this morning.  But I must give it up.”

“And something else will come in it’s place, never fear; but I did not know until to-night that my Lottie so pined for riches.”

“Angus, I do ­I do ­I want Harold to go to a good school, Daisy to be educated, little Angus to get what is necessary for his health, and above all, you, my dearest, my dearest, to have a warm overcoat, and port wine:  the overcoat when you are cold, the port wine when you are tired.  Think of having these luxuries, not only for yourself, but to give away to your poor, Angus, and I am sure we ought to have them.”

“Ah, Lottie! you are a witch, you try to tempt me, and all these things sound very pleasant.  But don’t dream of what we haven’t, let us live for the many, many things we have.”