another man," she said. "You might have known that. Go and get one somewhere."     

       And when the man went off, grumbling a little, and evidently rather at a loss before such peremptory coolness, she turned to Miss Belinda.     

       "Where must he put them?" she asked.     

       It did not seem to have occurred to her once that her identity might be doubted, and some slight obstacles arise before her.     

       "I am afraid," faltered Miss Belinda, "that five of them will have to be put in the attic."     

       And in fifteen minutes five of them were put into the attic, and the sixth—the biggest of all—stood in the trim little spare chamber, and pretty Miss Octavia had sunk into a puffy little chintz-covered easy-chair, while her newly found relative stood before her, making the most laudable efforts to recover her equilibrium, and not to feel as if her head were spinning round and round.     

  

  

  

       CHAPTER II. — "AN INVESTMENT, ANYWAY."     

       The natural result of these efforts was, that Miss Belinda was moved to shed a few tears.     

       "I hope you will excuse my being too startled to say I was glad to see you," she said. "I have not seen my brother for thirty years, and I was very fond of him."     

       "He said you were," answered Octavia; "and he was very fond of you too. He didn't write to you, because he made up his mind not to let you hear from him until he was a rich man; and then he thought he would wait until he could come home, and surprise you. He was awfully disappointed when he had to go back without seeing you."     

       "Poor, dear Martin!" wept Miss Belinda gently. "Such a journey!"     

       Octavia opened her charming eyes in surprise.     

       "Oh, he'll come back again!" she said. "And he doesn't mind the journey. The journey is nothing, you know."     

       "Nothing!" echoed Miss Belinda. "A voyage across the Atlantic nothing? When one 

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