How It All Came Round

by L. T. Meade

"He must go to Torquay," replied Hinton. "That is most manifest. But the difficulty will be how. They are very proud people. The difficulty will be how to induce them to accept aid from outsiders."

"Do you think they will be proud, John, when their child's life depends on their accepting some aid from others? I don't think they will allow so false an emotion to sacrifice his little precious life. It seems to me, that were I in that mother's place, I would lick the dust off the most menial feet that ever walked, to save my child."

"Perhaps you are right," said Hinton: "there is no doubt that one woman can best read the heart of another. What I propose is, that I take the little boy down to Torquay for a few weeks; I can make an excuse to the mother on my own score, and it will not seem so hard for her to send her boy. And the little lad loves me, I believe."

"Would it not be best for the mother to take her child herself?"

"It undoubtedly would. But it would be placing her under deeper obligation. I want to make it as light as possible to her."

"Then, John, you will give me one happiness? I will provide the money for this expedition."

"You shall, my dearest," answered Hinton, stooping down and kissing her.

He meant her to help Charlotte Home in this way, and he did not notice the slight sigh scarcely allowed to escape her lips. The fact was, Charlotte Harman had grown very hungry, almost starved, for her lover during his three weeks' absence, and now the thought that he was going still farther away from her, and their wedding-day drawing so quickly on, could not but excite a pang; the selfish part of her rose in revolt, and struggled to rebel, but with a firm hand she kept it well under, and Hinton never noticed her strangled little sigh. They talked for a long time of their plans, and Charlotte mentioned what money she had of her very own, and which could be immediately at Hinton's disposal. In the midst of this conversation, the postman's knock was heard, and a moment later a servant brought Charlotte a letter. She did not recognize the handwriting, and laid it for a moment unopened by her side. Then some confused remembrance of having seen it before, caused her to tear open the envelope. This was what her eyes rested on.

Charlotte—my sister and friend—I have found the little piece of paper you put into my Harold's hat. I never knew it was there until to-day. Thank God I did not know, for had I seen it after your visit, I should certainly, in my mad, ungracious, evil pride, have returned it to you.

Dear Charlotte—God nearly broke my heart since I saw you. He nearly took my boy away. In that process my pride has gone, though my love and tenderness and gratitude to you remain, for with this fifty pounds you are saving my child's little life. Thank you for it. God will bless you for it. You will never—never regret this deed. It will come back to you, the remembrance of it, in the midst of your own wealth and affluence, or if dark days visit you, you will let your thoughts wander to it as a place of safe anchorage in the storm. It will, all your life long, be a source to you of rejoicing that you saved a father's and mother's hearts from breaking, and kept a precious little life in this world.