How it all Came Round by L.T. Meade

The old Australian Alexander Wilson, had left his niece, Charlotte Home, after his first interview with her, in a very disturbed state of mind. More disturbed indeed was he than by the news of his sister's death. He was a rich man now, having been successful in the land of his banishment, and having returned to his native land the possessor of a moderate fortune. He had never married, and he meant to live with Daisy and share his wealth with her. But in these day-dreams he had only thought of his money as giving some added comforts to his rich little sister, enabling her to have a house in London for the season, and, while living in the country, to add more horses to her establishment and more conservatories to build and tend. His money should add to her luxuries and, consequently, to her comforts. He had never heard of this unforgotten sister for three and twenty years, the strange dislike to write home having grown upon him as time went on but though he knew nothing about her, he many a time in his own wild and solitary life pictured her as he saw her last. Daisy never grew old to him. Death and Daisy were not connected. Daisy in his imagination was always young, always girlish always fresh and beautiful. He saw her as he saw her last in her beautiful country home standing by her rich husband's side, looking more like his daughter than his wife. No, Sandy never dreamed that Daisy would or could die, but in thinking of her he believed her to be a widow. That husband, so old, when he went away, must be dead.

On his arrival in England, Sandy went down into Hertfortshire. He visited the place where he had last seen his sister. It was in the hands of strangers -- sold long ago. No one even remembered the name of Harman. Then he met little Daisy Home, and learned quite by accident that his Daisy was dead, and that the pretty child who reminded him of her was her grandchild. He went to visit Charlotte Home, and there made a fresh discovery. Had his Daisy been alive she would have wanted far more from his well-filled purse than horses and carriages. She would have needed not the luxuries of life, but the necessities. He had imagined her rich, while she had died in poverty. She had died poor, and her child, her only child, bore evident marks of having met face to face with the sorest of all want, that which attacks the gently born. Her face, still young, but sadly thin and worn, the very look in her eyes told this fact to Sandy.