“Mother, mother, mother!”

“And look! ­oh, do look at what I have got!” were the words that greeted Mrs. Home, when, very tired, after a day of hard nursing with one of her husband’s sick parishioners, she came back.

The children ought to have been in bed, the baby fast asleep, the little parlor-table tidily laid for tea:  instead of which, the baby wailed unceasingly up in the distant nursery, and Harold and Daisy, having nearly finished Charlotte’s sweeties, and made themselves very uncomfortable by repeated attacks on the rich plum-cake, were now, with very flushed cheeks, alternately playing with their toys and poking their small fingers into the still unopened brown-paper parcels.  They had positively refused to go up to the nursery, and, though the gas was lit and the blinds were pulled down, the spirit of disorder had most manifestly got into the little parlor.

“Oh, mother! ­what do you think?  The lovely lady! ­the lady we met in the park yesterday! ­she has been, and she brought us lots of things ­toys, and sweeties, and cakes, and ­oh, mother, do look!”

Daisy presented her doll, and Harold blew some very shrill blasts from his trumpet right up into his mother’s eyes.

“My dear children,” said Mrs. Home, “whom do you mean? where did you get all these things? who has come here?  Why aren’t you both in bed?  It is long past your usual hour.”

This string of questions met with an unintelligible chorus of replies, in which the words “pretty lady,” “Regent’s Park,” “father knew her,” “we had to sit up,” so completely puzzled Mrs. Home, that had not her eyes suddenly rested on the little note waiting for her on the mantelpiece she would have been afraid her children had taken leave of their senses.

“Oh, yes; she told us to give you that,” said Harold when he saw his mother take it up.

I have said the note was very short.  Charlotte Home read it in a moment.

“Mother, mother! what does she tell you, and what are in the other parcels?  She said we weren’t to open them until you came home.  Oh, do tell us what she said, and let us see the rest of the pretty things!”

“Do, do mother; we have been so patient ’bout it!” repeated little Daisy.

Harold now ran for the largest of the parcels, and raised it for his mother to take.  Both children clung to her skirts.  Mrs. Home put the large parcel on a shelf out of reach, then she put aside the hot and eager little hands.  At last she spoke.

“My little children must have some more patience, for mother can tell them nothing more to-night.  Yes, yes, the lady is very pretty and very kind, but we can talk no more about anything until the morning.  Now, Harold and Daisy, come upstairs at once.”

They were an obedient, well-trained little pair.  They just looked at one another, and from each dimpled mouth came a short, impatient sigh; then they gave their hands to mother, and went gravely up to the nursery.  Charlotte stayed with her children until they were undressed.  She saw them comfortably washed, their baby prayers said, and each little head at rest on its pillow, then kissing the baby, who was also by this time fast asleep, she went softly downstairs.

Anne, the little maid, was flying about, trying to get the tea ready and some order restored, but when she saw her mistress she could not refrain from standing still to pour out her excited tale.

“Ef you please, ’em, it come on me hall on a ’eap.  She come in that free and that bounteous, and seemed as if she could eat all the children up wid love; and she give ’em a lot, and left a lot more fur you, ’em.  And when she wor goin’ away she put half-a-crown in my hand.  I never seed the like ­never, ’em ­never!  She wor dressed as grand as Queen Victory herself, and she come in a carriage and two spanking hosses; and, please, ’em, I heard of her telling the children as she wos own cousin to you, ’em.”

“Yes, I know the young lady,” replied Mrs. Home.  “She is, as you say, very nice and kind.  But now, Anne, we must not talk any more.  Your master won’t be in for an hour, but I shan’t wait tea for him; we will have some fresh made later.  Please bring me in a cup at once, for I am very tired.”

Anne gazed at her mistress in open-eyed astonishment.  Any one ­any one as poor as she well knew missis to be ­who could take the fact of being cousin to so beautiful and rich a young lady with such coolness and apparent indifference quite passed Anne’s powers of comprehension.

“It beats me holler ­that it do!” she said to herself; then, with a start, she ran off to her kitchen.

Mrs. Home had taken her first cup of tea, and had even eaten a piece of bread and butter, before she again drew Charlotte Harman’s little note out of her pocket.  This is what her eyes had already briefly glanced over: ­

DEAR FRIEND AND SISTER ­for you must let me call you so ­I have come to see you, and finding you out asked to see your children.  I have lost my heart to your beautiful and lovely children.  They are very sweet!  Your baby is more like an angel than any earthly creature my eyes have ever rested on.  Charlotte, I brought your children a few toys, and one or two other little things.  You won’t be too proud to accept them.  When I bought them I did not love your children, but I loved you.  You are my near kinswoman.  You won’t take away the pleasure I felt when I bought those things.  Dear Sister Charlotte, when shall we meet again?  Send me a line, and I will come to you at any time.  Yours,

     “CHARLOTTE HARMAN.”

It is to be regretted that Charlotte Home by no means received this sweet and loving little note in the spirit in which it was written.  Her pale, thin face flushed, and her eyes burnt with an angry light.  This burst of excited feeling was but the outcome of all she had undergone mentally since she had left Miss Harman’s house a few days ago.  She had said then, and truly, that she loved this young lady.  The pride, the stately bearing, the very look of open frankness in Charlotte’s eyes had warmed and touched her heart.  She had not meant to tell to those ears, so unaccustomed to sin and shame, this tale of long-past wrong.  It had been in a manner forced from her, and she had seen a flush of perplexity, then of horror, color the cheeks and fill the fine brave eyes.  She had come away with her heart sympathies so moved by this girl, so touched, so shocked with what she herself had revealed, that she would almost rather, could her father’s money now be hers, relinquish it, than cause any further pain or shame to Charlotte Harman.

She came home and confided what she had done to her husband.  It is not too much to say that he was displeased ­that he was much hurt.  The Charlotte who in her too eagerness for money could so act was scarcely the Charlotte he had pictured to himself as his wife.  Charlotte was lowered in the eyes of the unworldly man.  But just because her husband was so unworldly, so unpractical, Charlotte’s own more everyday nature began to reassert itself.  She had really done no harm.  She had but told a tale of wrong.  Those who committed the wrong were the ones to blame.  She, the sufferer ­who could put sin at her door?  Her sympathy for Charlotte grew less, her sorrow for herself and her children more.  She felt more sure than ever that injustice had been committed ­that she and her mother had been robbed; she seemed to read the fact in Charlotte Harman’s innocent eyes, Charlotte, in spite of herself, even though her own father was the one accused, believed her ­agreed with her.

All that night she spent in a sort of feverish dream, in which she saw herself wealthy, her husband happy, her children cared for as they ought to be.  The ugly, ugly poverty of her life and her surroundings had all passed away like a dream that is told.

She got up in a state of excitement and expectation, for what might not Charlotte Harman do for her?  She would tell the tale to her father, and that father, seeing that his sin was found out, would restore her to her rights.  Of course, this must be the natural consequence.  Charlotte was not low and mean; she would see that she had her own again.  Mrs. Home made no allowance for any subsequent event ­for any influence other than her own being brought to bear on the young lady.  All that day she watched the post; she watched for the possibility of a visit.  Neither letter nor visit came, but Mrs. Home was not discouraged.  That day was too soon to hear; she must wait with patience for the morrow.

On the morrow her husband, who had almost forgotten her story, asked her to come and help him in the care of a sick woman at some distance away.  Charlotte was a capital sick-nurse, and had often before given similar aid to Mr. Home in parish work.

She went, spent her day away, and returned to find that Charlotte had come ­that so far her dream was true.  Yes, but only so far, for Charlotte had come, not in shame, but in the plenitude of a generous benefactor.  She had come laden with gifts, and had gone away with the hearts of the children and the little maid.  Charlotte Home felt a great wave of anger and pain stealing over her heart.  In her pain and disappointment she was unjust.

“She is a coward after all.  She dare not tell her father.  She believes my tale, but she is not brave enough to see justice done to me and mine; so she tries to make up for it; she tries to salve her conscience and bribe me with gifts ­gifts and flattery.  I will have none of it.  My rights ­my true and just rights, or nothing!  These parcels shall go back unopened to-morrow.”  She rose from her seat, and put them all tidily away on a side-table.  She had scarcely done so before her husband’s latch-key was heard in the hall-door.  He came in with the weary look which was habitual to his thin face.  “Oh, Angus, how badly you do want your tea!” said the poor wife.  She was almost alarmed at her husband’s pallor, and forgot Charlotte while attending to his comfort.

“What are those parcels, Lottie?” he said, noticing the heaped-up things on the side-table.

“Never mind.  Eat your supper first,” she said to him.

“I can eat, and yet know what is in them.  They give quite a Christmas and festive character to the place.  And what is that I see lying on that chair ­a new doll for Daisy?  Why, has my careful little woman been so extravagant as to buy the child another doll?”

Mr. Home smiled as he spoke.  His wife looked at him gravely.  She picked up the very pretty doll and laid it with the other parcels on the side-table.

“I will tell you about the parcels and the doll if you wish it,” she answered.  “Miss Harman called when I was out, and brought cakes, and sweeties, and toys to the children.  She also brought those parcels.  I do not know what they contain, for I have not opened them.  And she left a note for me.  I cannot help the sweeties and cakes, for Harold and Daisy have eaten them; but the toys and those parcels shall go back to-morrow.”

Mrs. Home looked very proud and defiant as she spoke.  Her husband glanced at her face; then, with a slight sigh, he pushed his supper aside.

“No, I am not hungry, dear.  I am just a little overtired.  May I see Miss Harman’s note?”

Charlotte put it at once into his hand.

He read it carefully once ­twice.  His own spirit was very loving and Christ-like; consequently the real love and true human feeling in the little note touched him.

“Lottie,” he said, as he gave it back to his wife, “why do you want to pain that sweet creature?”

Mrs. Home took the note, and flung it into the fire.

“There!” she said, an angry spot on each cheek.  “She and hers have injured me and mine.  I don’t want gifts from her.  I want my rights!”

To this burst of excited feeling Mr. Home answered nothing.  After a moment or two of silence he rang the bell, and when Anne appeared asked her to take away the tea-things.  After this followed an hour of perfect quiet.  Mrs. Home took out her great basket of mending.  Mr. Home sat still, and apparently idle, by the fire.  After a time he left the room to go for a moment to his own.  Passing the nursery, he heard a little movement, and, entering softly, saw Harold sitting up in his little cot.

“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?”

“If you mean that I will go to law on the chance of our receiving some money which may have been left to us, certainly I will not.  The fact is, Lottie ­you may think me very eccentric ­but I cannot move in this matter.  It seems to me to be entirely God’s matter, not ours.  If Mr. Harman has committed the dreadful sin you impute to him, God must bring it home to him.  Before that poor man who for years has hidden such a sin in his heart, and lived such a life before his fellow-men, is fit to go back to the arms of His father, he must suffer dreadfully.  I pray, from my heart I pray, that if he committed the sin he may have the suffering, for there is no other road to the Father; but I cannot pray that this awful suffering may be sent to give us a better house, and our children finer clothes, and that richer food may be put on our table.”

Mrs. Home was silent for a moment, then she said, ­

“Angus, forgive me, I did not look at it in that light.”

“No, my dearest, and because I so pity her, if her father really is guilty, I do not want you unnecessarily to pain Miss Harman.  You remember my telling you of that fine girl I met in Regent’s Park yesterday, the girl who was so kind and nice to our children.  I have just been up with Harold, and he tells me that your Miss Harman and his pretty lady are one and the same.”

“Is that really so?” answered Mrs. Home.  “Yes.  I know that Charlotte Harman is very attractive.  Did I not tell you, Angus, that she had won my own heart?  But I confess when I saw those gifts and read her note I felt angry.  I thought after hearing my tale she should have done more.  These presents seemed to me in the light of a bribe.”

“Charlotte!”

“Ah!  I know you are shocked.  You cannot see the thing with my eyes; that is how they really looked to me.”

“Then, my dear wife, may I give you a piece of advice?”

“That is what I am hungering for, Angus.”

“Tell the whole story, as frankly ­more frankly than you have told it to me, to God to-night.  Lay the whole matter in the loving hands of your Father, then, Charlotte; after so praying, if in the morning you still think Miss Harman was actuated by so mean a spirit, treat her as she deserves.  With your own hands deal the punishment to her, send everything back.”

Mrs. Home’s face flushed very brightly, and she lowered her eyes to prevent her husband seeing the look of shame which filled them.  The result of this conversation was the following note written the next morning to Miss Harman.

I could not have thanked you last night for what you have done, but I can to-day.  You have won my children’s little hearts.  Be thankful that you have made my dear little ones so happy.  You ask to see me again, Miss Harman.  I do not think I can come to you, and I don’t ask you to come here.  Still I will see you; name some afternoon to meet me in Regent’s Park and I will be there.

     Yours,
     CHARLOTTE HOME.

Thus the gifts were kept, and the mother tried to pray away a certain soreness which would remain notwithstanding all her husband’s words.  She was human after all, however, and Charlotte Harman might have been rewarded had she seen her face the following Sunday morning when she brought her pretty children down to their father to inspect them in their new clothes.

Harold went to church that morning, with his mother, in a very picturesque hat; but no one suspected quite how much it was worth, not even those jealous mothers who saw it and remarked upon it, and wondered who had left Mrs. Home a legacy, for stowed carefully away under the lining was Charlotte Harman’s bright, crisp, fifty-pound note.