CHAPTER VIII.

THE SHOEMAKER BECOMES “GOLDEN.”

One morning, about twelve years after the disappearance of Marian, there came to her father a great, and almost overwhelming surprise.

It is not necessary to dwell on the manner in which the twelve years had passed. Nothing had ever been heard of Marian. The most thorough search was made, but without result; and at length, the stricken father was constrained to accept the conviction that his child was indeed gone from him into the great world, and, bowing his head in the presence of his God, he covered his bruised heart with the fair sheet of a dignified self-control, and settled down to his work again, like a man and a Christian.

Yet he did not cease inwardly to grieve. If his child had gone to her dead mother, there would havebeen strong consolation, and, perhaps, in time, contentment might have come. But she was gone, not to her mother, but out into the cold, pitiless world; and his imagination dwelt grimly on the nameless miseries into which she might fall.

Miss Jemima still kept her brother’s house; but she had been greatly softened by her self-accusing grief. And now, as the brother and sister sat at breakfast one autumn morning, came the surprise of which we speak. It came in the form of a letter, which, before opening it, “Cobbler” Horn regarded, for some moments, with a dubious air. The arrival of a letter at his house was a rare event; and but for the fact that the missive bore his name and address, he would have thought there was a mistake, and, even now, the addition of the sign, “Esq.” to his name left the matter in some doubt. The stoutness of the blue envelope, and the bold character of the handwriting, gave the packet a business-like look. For a moment, “Cobbler” Horn thought of his lost child. A slight circumstance was sufficient, even yet, to re-awaken his hopes; and he still clung to the conviction that, some day, his child would return. The letter, however, contained no reference to the great sorrow of his life; and, indeed, its contents were such that he forgot, for the time being, Marian, and everything else. He looked up with a gasp of astonishment; and then, turning his attention again to the letter, deliberately read it through, and, when he had finished, calmly handed it to his sister. She read a few words, and broke off with a cry.

“Thomas!”

“Yes, Jemima, I am a rich man, it seems. Read on, and say what you think;” and “Cobbler” Horn rose from his seat, and went quietly into his workshop.

Miss Jemima devoured her brother’s letter with greedy eyes. It was from a firm of London lawyers, and contained a brief announcement that the rich uncle of “Cobbler” Horn had died, in America, without a will; that “Cobbler” Horn was the lawful owner of all his wealth; and that they, the lawyers, awaited “Cobbler” Horn’s commands. Would he call upon them at their office in London, or should they attend him at his private, or any other, address? In the meantime, he would oblige by drawing upon them for any amount of money he might require.

With what breath she had left Miss Jemima hurried into her brother’s workshop.

“Thomas,” she demanded, flourishing the letter in his face, “what are you going to do?”

“Think,” he answered concisely, without looking up from the hob-nailed boot between his knees, “and pray, and get on with my work.”

“But this letter requires an answer! And,” with a glance of disgust around the rough shop with its signs of toil, “you are a rich man now, Thomas.”

“That,” was the quiet reply, “does not alter the fact that I have half-a-dozen pairs of boots to mend, and two of them are promised for dinner-time. Leave me, now, Jemima, and we’ll talk the matter over thisevening. I don’t suppose the gentlemen will be in a hurry.”

Miss Jemima withdrew as she was bidden, thinking that there was one gentleman, at least, who was not in a hurry.

All day long “Cobbler” Horn quietly worked on in the usual way. He did this partly because he loved his work and was loath to give it up, partly because he had so much work on hand, and partly that he might think and pray, which he could always do best on his cobbler’s stool. He found it difficult to realize what had taken place; but when, at last, he fairly grasped the fact that he was now a rich man, mingled feelings of joy and dread filled his breast. There was little taint of selfishness in “Cobbler” Horn’s joy. It was no gratification to him to be relieved of the necessity to work. Nor was he fascinated with the prospect of luxury. His joy arose chiefly from the thought of the amount of good he would now be able to do. It was impossible that he should form anything like an adequate conception of the vast power for good which had been placed in his hands. The boundless ability to benefit his fellowmen with which he had been so suddenly endowed could not be realized in the first moments of his great surprise, yet he perceived faint glimmerings of possibilities of benevolence beyond his largest-hearted dreams.

Thoughts of his long-lost child stole over him ever and anon. If she had been left to him, he would have rejoiced in his good fortune the more, on her account. But she was gone.

The joy of “Cobbler” Horn was chastened by a solemn dread. A great responsibility had been laid upon him from which he would have infinitely rather been free. He prayed, with trembling, that he might prove worthy of so great a trust.

At dinner-time Miss Jemima questioned her brother as to his intentions. His answers were brief and indefinite. The matter could not be settled in a moment. In the evening they would talk things over, and decide what to do.

The evening came, and brother and sister sat before the fire.

“Jemima,” said “Cobbler” Horn, “I must accept this great responsibility.”

“You surely did not think of doing anything else?” exclaimed the startled lady.

“Well—yes—I did. The burden seemed so great that, for a time, I shrank. But the Lord has shown me my duty. I could have desired that we might have remained as we were. But there is much consolation in the thought of all the good we shall be able to do; and—well, the will of the Lord be done!”

Miss Jemima was astounded. Her brother had become rich beyond the dreams of avarice, and he talked of resignation to the will of God!

“Then you will answer the letter at once?” she said.

“Yes, to-morrow.”

“And you will go to London?”

“Yes, next week, I think.”

“Next week! Why not this week? It’s only Monday.”

“There is no need to hurry, Jemima. There might be some mistake. And it’s as well to give the gentlemen time to prepare.”

“Lawyers don’t make mistakes,” said Miss Jemima: “And as for preparing, you may be sure they have done that already.”

But nothing could induce “Cobbler” Horn to hasten his movements; and his sister was fain to content herself with his promise to write to the lawyers the next day, which he duly fulfilled.

A STRANGE CLIENT FOR MESSRS. TONGS AND BALL.

The day on which “Cobbler” Horn had proposed to the lawyers to pay them his promised visit, was the following Monday, at three o’clock in the afternoon, and by return of post there came a letter from the lawyers assenting to the arrangement. During the week which intervened, “Cobbler” Horn did not permit either himself or his sister to mention to a third person the change his circumstances had undergone. Nor did he encourage conversation between his sister and himself on the subject of his suddenly acquired wealth. And neither his manner of life nor the ordering of his house gave any indication of the altered position in which he was placed. He did not permit the astounding news he had received to interfere with the simple regularity of his life. Miss Jemima might have been inclined to introduce into her domestic arrangements some outward andvisible sign of the altered fortunes of the house; but her brother’s will prevailed, and all things continued as before. The “golden shoemaker” even continued to work at his trade in the usual way. And all the time he was thinking—thinking and praying; and many generous purposes, which afterwards bore abundant fruit, began to germinate in his mind.

At length the momentous day arrived, and “Cobbler” Horn travelled by an early train to London, and, having dined frugally at a decent eating-house, presented himself in due time at the offices of Messrs. Tongs and Ball. The men of law were both seated in the room into which their new client was shown. One of them was a very little, round, rosy, middle-aged man, with an expression of countenance so cherubic that no one would have suspected him of being a lawyer; and the other was a tall, large-boned, parchment-faced personage, of whom almost any degree of heartlessness might have been believed. The two lawyers rose and bowed as “Cobbler” Horn was shown in.

“Mr. Horn?”

“Thomas Horn, at your service, gentlemen.”

“This is Mr. Tongs,” said the tall lawyer with a waive of his hand towards his rotund partner; “and I am Mr. Ball,” he added, drawing himself into an attitude which caused him to look much more like a bat than a ball, and speaking in a surprisingly agreeable tone. Upon this there was bowing all around, and then a pause.

“Pray take a seat, Mr. Horn,” besought Mr. Ball.

“Cobbler” Horn modestly obeyed.

“And now, my dear sir,” said Mr. Ball, when he himself and his partner had also resumed their seats, “let us congratulate you on your good fortune.”

“Thank you, gentlemen,” said “Cobbler” Horn gravely. “But the responsibility is very great. I am only reconciled to it by the thought that I shall now be able to do many things that I have long desired to do.”

“Ah,” said Mr. Ball, “it is one of the gratifications of wealth that a man is able to follow his bent—whether it be travelling, collecting pictures, keeping horses, or what not.”

“Of course,” echoed Mr. Tongs.

“No, no, gentlemen,” dissented “Cobbler” Horn, “I was thinking of the good I shall now be able to do. But let us get to business; for I should be sorry to waste your time.”

Both lawyers protested. Waste their time! They could not be better employed!

“You are very kind, gentlemen.”

“Not at all,” was the candid reply.

“You have come into a very large fortune, Mr. Horn,” continued Mr. Ball, as he began to untie a bundle of documents. “You are worth very many thousands; in fact you are almost a millionaire. I think I am right, Mr. Tongs?”

“Yes,” assented Mr. Tongs, “oh yes, certainly.”

“All the documents are here,” resumed Mr. Ball, as he surveyed a sea of blue and white paper which covered the table; “and, with your permission,Mr. Horn, we will give you an account of their contents.”

The lawyer then proceeded to give his client a statement of the particulars of the fortune of which he had so unexpectedly become possessed.

“We hope, Mr. Horn,” he said, in conclusion, “that you may do us the honour to continue the confidence reposed in us by your late uncle.”

“I beg your pardon, sir?” said “Cobbler” Horn.

“I ventured to hope that my partner and I might be so fortunate as to retain the management of your affairs. I believe you will find that since—”

“Oh yes, of course,” “Cobbler” Horn hastened to interpose. He had not dreamt of making any change. The lawyers bowed their thanks.

“May we now ask,” said Mr. Ball, “whether you have any special commands?”

“I think there are one or two requests I should like to make. I have a sister, and I believe my uncle left another nephew.”

“A sad scrapegrace, my dear sir,” interposed Mr. Ball, whose keen legal instinct gave him some scent of what was coming next.

“Cobbler” Horn held up his hand.

“Can you tell me, gentlemen, whether there are any other relatives of my uncle’s who are still alive?”

“We have every reason to believe that there are not.”

“Very well, then, I wish my uncle’s property to be divided into three equal portions. One third I desire to have made over to my sister, and another tobe reserved for my cousin. The remaining portion I will retain myself.”

“But, my dear sir,” cried Mr. Ball, “the whole of the property is legally yours!”

“True,” was the quiet reply; “but the law cannot make that right which is essentially wrong, and my sister and cousin are as much entitled to my uncle’s money as I am myself.”

Mr. Ball was dumfounded.

“My dear sir,” he gasped, “this is very strange!”

But “Cobbler” Horn was firm.

“You will find this scapegrace cousin of mine?” he asked.

The lawyers said they would do their best; and, when some further arrangements had been made, with regard to the property, “Cobbler” Horn took his departure, leaving his two legal advisers to assure one another, as they stood together on the hearthrug, that he was the strangest client they had known.

MISS JEMIMA IS VERY MUCH ASTONISHED.

Miss Jemima Horn was sufficiently curious as to the result of her brother’s visit to the lawyers, to render her restlessly eager for his return. He came back the same night. He had work to finish in the cobbling line; and besides he had no fancy for any bed but his own.

After supper, the brother and sister sat down before the fire, for the talk to which Miss Jemima had been looking forward all day long.

“Well, brother,” she queried, “I suppose you’ve heard all about it?”

“Yes, in a general way.”

“And what is the amount?”

“I’m almost afraid to say. The gentlemen said little short of a million!”

Miss Jemima threw up her hands with a little jerk of wonder, and gazed at her brother with incredulous surprise.

“Where is it all?” was her next enquiry.

“Some in England, and some in America.”

“It’s not all in money, of course?” she asked, in doubtful tones.

“No,” said her brother, opening his eyes: “it’s in all sorts of ways. A great deal of it is in house property. There’s one whole village—or nearly so.”

“A whole village!”

“Yes, the village of Daisy Lane. It was the family home at one time, you know.”

This was true. The village of Daisy Lane, in a Midland county, had been the cradle of the race of Horn. “Cobbler” Horn and his sister, however, had never visited the ancestral village.

“Well?” queried Miss Jemima.

“Well, uncle had a fancy for owning the village; so he bought it up bit by bit.”

“Only to think!” exclaimed Miss Jemima. “And what else is there?”

“Well, there’s money in all sorts of forms that I understand very little about.”

“It’s simply wonderful!” declared Miss Jemima.

“And then there’s the old hall at Daisy Lane. Uncle meant to end his days there; but God has ordered otherwise, you see.”

“And you will go to live there?”

“No,” answered her brother, slowly; “I think not, Jemima.”

“But——”

“Sister, I don’t think we should be happy ina grand house—at any rate not all at once. But there’s something else I want to talk about.”

Of late years the ascendancy had completely passed from Miss Jemima to her brother; and now, though she would fain have talked further about the old family mansion, she submissively turned her attention to what her brother was about to say.

“It is probable, Jemima,” he begun, “that there has never been a rich man who had so few relatives to whom to leave his wealth as had our uncle.”

“Yes: father and Uncle Ira were the only members of Uncle Jacob’s family who ever married; and the brothers and sisters are all dead now. We are almost alone in the world.”

“Except one cousin, you know,” said “Cobbler” Horn.

“You mean Uncle Ira’s scapegrace, Jack. But no one knows where he is. He may be dead for all we know.”

Somehow Miss Jemima did not seem to desire that there should be any other relatives of her uncle to the front, just now, but her brother and herself.

“If Jack is dead,” said “Cobbler” Horn, “there will be no more to say. But if he is alive, he must have his share of uncle’s money; and I have left it with the legal gentlemen to find him if they can.”

“Thomas,” protested Miss Jemima, “do you think it would be right to hand over uncle’s hard-earned money to that poor wastrel?”

“His right to the money, Jemima, is as good as ours.”

“Perhaps so; but I feel convinced that uncle would not have wished for any part of his money to go to Jack. It would be like flinging it into the sea.”

“Yes; but that cuts both ways, Jemima. Uncle would never have willed his money to me, any more than to Jack. But God has given it to me, and I mean to use it in the way of which I believe He will approve.”

“And that is not all,” he hastily resumed. “I have another relative;” and he directed a look of loving significance towards his sister’s face. “Do you think that, if I admit the claim of our poor scapegrace cousin to a share of our uncle’s money, I shall overlook the right of the dear sister who has been my stay and comfort all these sorrowing years?”

“But—but——” began Miss Jemima, in bewildered tones.

“Yes, you are to have your share too, Jemima.”

“But, brother I don’t desire it. If you have the money, it’s all the same as though I had it myself.”

With all her severity, there was not an atom of selfishness in Miss Jemima Horn.

“It’s all arranged,” was her brother’s reply. “I instructed the lawyers to divide the property into three equal portions.”

Miss Jemima, supposing that an arrangement with the lawyers was like the laws of the Medes and Persians, which “altered not,” felt compelled to submit; but it was with the understanding that her brother took entire management of her portion of the money, as well as his own.

There was little further talk between “Cobbler” Horn and his sister that evening. Their early bed-time had arrived; and “Cobbler” Horn, having read a chapter in the Bible, offered a fervent prayer, in which he asked earnestly that his sister and himself might receive grace to use rightly the great wealth which had been entrusted to their charge.

“If we should prove unfaithful, Lord,” he said, “take it from us as suddenly as Thou hast given it.”

“Oh, brother,” cried Miss Jemima, as they were going up to bed, “some letters came for you this morning.”

“Cobbler” Horn took the four or five letters, which his sister was holding out to him, with a bewildered air.

“Are they really for me?” he asked.

“Small doubt of that,” said Miss Jemima.

The opening of letters was, as yet, to “Cobbler” Horn, a ceremony to be performed with care. He drew a chair to the table, and deliberately took his seat. He took up the first letter, and, having read it slowly through, placed it in Miss Jemima’s eager hand. It was a request, from a “gentleman in distress,” for a loan of twenty pounds—a “trifle” to the possessor of so much wealth, but, to the writer “a matter of life or death.”

“This will never do!” pronounced Miss Jemima; and the lady’s lips emitted a gentle whistling sound.

“How soon it seems to have got wind!” exclaimed “Cobbler” Horn.

“It’s been in the papers, no doubt.”

“So it has,” he said; “I saw it myself in a newspaper that I bought this evening, to read in the train. It called me the ‘Golden Shoemaker.’”

“Ah!” cried Miss Jemima. “I’ve no doubt it will go the round.” The good lady was not greatly averse to such a pleasant publication of the family name.

“Well,” she resumed, “what do the other letters say?”

They were all similar to the first. One was from a man who had invented a new boot sewing-machine, and would take out a patent; another purported to came from a widow with six young children, and begged for a little—ever so little—timely help: and the other two were appeals on behalf of religious institutions.

“Penalty of wealth!” remarked Miss Jemima, as she took the letters from her brother’s hand.

“I suppose I must answer them to-morrow,” groaned “Cobbler” Horn.

“Answer them!” exclaimed Miss Jemima. “If you take my advice, you’ll throw them into the fire. There will be plenty more of the same sort soon. Though,” she added thoughtfully, “you’ll have to read your letters, I suppose; for there’ll be some you’ll be obliged to answer.”

“Well,” said “Cobbler” Horn quietly, as they turned to the stairs, “we shall see.”

“COBBLER” HORN ANSWERS HIS LETTERS, AND RECEIVES THE CONGRATULATIONS OF HIS FRIENDS.

When, after a somewhat troubled night, “Cobbler” Horn came down next morning, his attention was arrested by the letters lying, as he had left them, on the table, the night before.

“Yes,” he said, in answer to his thoughts; “I think I’ll deal with them straight away.” So saying, he drew a chair to the table, and, having found a few sheets of time-stained note paper, together with a penny bottle of ink, and an old crippled pen, he sat down to his unwelcome task. The undertaking proved even more troublesome than he had thought it would be. The pen persisted in sputtering at almost every word; and when, at crucial points, he took special pains to make the writing legible, the too frequent result was an indecipherable blotch of ink. Whenthe valiant scribe had wrestled with his uncongenial task for half an hour or more, his sister came upon the scene. Quietly she stepped across the floor.

“Ah!” she exclaimed, peeping over her brother’s shoulder, “so you are answering them already!”

“Cobbler” Horn started, and a huge blot fell from his pen into the midst of his half-finished letter.

“I’m afraid I shall not be able to send this, now,” he said, with a patient sigh.

“No,” said Miss Jemima, laconically, “I’m afraid not. You are writing to the ‘widow,’ I see; and you are promising her some help. That’s very well. But, in nine cases out of ten, what strangers say of themselves requires confirmation—especially if they are beggars; so don’t you think that, before sending money to this ‘widow,’ it would be as well to ask for the name of some reliable person who will vouch for the truth of her statements? You must not forget, what you often say, you know, that you are the steward of your Lord’s goods.”

This was an argument which was sure to prevail with “Cobbler” Horn.

“No doubt you are right, Jemima,” he said; “and, however reluctantly, I must take your advice.”

“That’s right,” said Miss Jemima.

“You haven’t answered the other letters?” she then asked, with a glance over the table.

“No.”

“Well, hadn’t you better put them away now, and get to your work? After breakfast you must geta new pen and a fresh bottle of ink. Then we’ll see what we can do together.”

In an emergency which demanded the exercise of the practical good sense, of which she had so large a share, Miss Jemima regained, to some extent, her old ascendency over her brother. He quietly gathered up his letters, and, placing them on the chimney-piece, retired to his workshop.

At breakfast-time Miss Jemima’s prognostication began to receive fulfilment in the arrival of the postman with another batch of letters. This time the number had increased to something like a dozen. Having received them from the hands of the postman, “Cobbler” Horn carried them towards his sister with a somewhat comical air of dismay.

“So many!” exclaimed she. “Your cares are accumulating fast. You will have to engage a secretary. Well, we’ll look at them by and bye.”

Scarcely was breakfast over than there came a modest knock at the door, which, on being opened by Miss Jemima, revealed the presence of the elder of the little twin hucksters, who still carried on business across the way.

Miss Jemima drew herself up like a sentry; and little Tommy Dudgeon, finding himself confronted by this formidable lady, would have beaten a hasty retreat. But it was too late.

“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” he began humbly; “I came to see your brother.”

“I don’t know,” was the lady’s lofty reply. “My brother has much business on hand.”

“No doubt, ma’am; but—but—”

At this point “Cobbler” Horn himself came to the door, and Miss Jemima retreated into the house.

“Good morning, Tommy,” said “Cobbler” Horn heartily, “step in.”

“Thank you, Mr. Horn,” was the modest reply, “I’m afraid I can’t. Business presses, you know. But I’ve just come to congratulate you if I may make so bold. Brother would have come too; but he’s minding the twins. It’s washing day, you see. He’ll pay his respects another time.”

John Dudgeon had been married for some years, and amongst the troubles which had varied for him the joys of that blissful state, there had recently come the crowning calamity of twins—an affliction which would seem to have run in the Dudgeon family.

“We are glad you have inherited this vast wealth, Mr. Horn,” said Tommy Dudgeon. “We think the arrangement excellent. The ways of Providence are indeed wonderful.”

“Cobbler” Horn made suitable acknowledgment of the congratulations of his humble little friend.

“There is only one thing we regret,” resumed the little man; “and that is that your change of fortune will remove you to another sphere.”

“Cobbler” Horn smiled.

“Well, well,” he said, “we shall see.”

Whereupon Tommy Dudgeon, feeling comforted, he scarcely knew why, said “Good morning” and ambled back to his shop.

About the middle of the morning “Cobbler” Hornand his sister sat down to deal with the letters. First they glanced at those which had arrived that morning, and then laid them aside for the time, until, in fact, they had dealt with those previously received. First came that of the assumed widow, to which Miss Jemima induced her brother to write a cautious reply, asking for a reference. To the man who asked for the loan of twenty pounds, Miss Jemima would have sent no reply at all; but “Cobbler” Horn insisted that a brief but courteous note should be sent to him, expressing regret that the desired loan could not be furnished. It did not need the persuasion of his sister to induce “Cobbler” Horn to decline all dealings with the importunate inventor; but it was with great difficulty that she could dissuade him from making substantial promises to the religious institutions from which he had received appeals.

“I think I shall consult the minister about such cases,” he said.

The investigation of the second batch of letters was postponed until the afternoon.

During the morning, and at intervals throughout the day, others of “Cobbler” Horn’s neighbours came to offer their congratulations, and were astonished to find him seated on his cobbler’s stool, and quietly plying his accustomed task. To their remonstrances he would reply, “You see this work is promised; and if I am rich, I must keep my word. And then the habits of a lifetime are not to be given up in a day. And, to be honest with you, friends, I amin no haste to make the change. I love my work, and would as lief be sitting on this stool as anywhere else in the world.”

There came some of his poorer customers, who greatly bewailed what they regarded as his inevitable removal from their midst. They could not congratulate him as heartily as they desired. They would rather he had remained the poor, kind-hearted, Christian cobbler whom they had always known. Many a pair of boots had he mended free of charge for customers who could ill afford to pay; not a few were the small debts of poor but honest debtors which he had forgiven; and not seldom had clandestine gifts of money or food found their way from his hands to one or another of these regretful congratulators. Perceiving the grief upon the faces of his friends, “Cobbler” Horn contrived, by means of various hints, to let them know that he would still be their friend, and to remind them that his enrichment would conduce to their more effectual help at his hands.

On one point all his visitors were agreed. Great wealth, they said, could not have come to any one by whom it was more thoroughly deserved, or who would put it to a better use. “The Lord,” affirmed one quaint individual, “knew what He was about this time, anyhow.”

In the afternoon, “Cobbler” Horn and his sister set about the task of answering the second batch of letters. They were all, with one exception, of a similar character to those of the first. Theexception proved to be a badly-written, ill-spelled, but evidently sincere, homily on the dangers of wealth, and ended with a fierce warning of the dire consequences of disregarding its admonition. It was signed simply—“A friend.”

“You’ll burn that, I should think!” was Miss Jemima’s scornful comment on this ill-judged missive.

“No,” said “Cobbler” Horn, putting the letter into his breast pocket; “I shall keep it. It was well meant, and will do me good.”

By tea-time their task was finished; and “Cobbler” Horn heaved a sigh of relief as he rose from his seat. But just then the postman knocked at the door, and handed in another and still larger supply of letters, at the sight of which the “Golden Shoemaker” staggered back aghast. The fame of his fortune had indeed got wind.

“Ah,” exclaimed his sister, who was setting the tea-things, “you’ll have to engage a secretary, as I said.”

“COBBLER” HORN PAYS A VISIT TO HIS LANDLORD.

The day following his trip to London “Cobbler” Horn paid a visit to his landlord. His purpose was to buy the house in which he lived. Though he realized that he must now take up his actual abode in a house more suited to his altered circumstances, he wished to retain the possession and use of the one in which he had lived so long. The humble cottage was endeared to him by many ties. Here the best part of his life had been passed. Here his brief but blissful married life had been spent, and here his precious wife had died. Of this house his darling little Marian had been the light and joy; and her blithe and loving spirit seemed to haunt it still. These memories, reinforced by a generous purpose on behalf of the poor neighbours whom he had been wont to help, decided him to endeavour to make the house absolutely his own.

“Cobbler” Horn did not tell his sister of his intention with regard to the house. He simply said, after breakfast, that he was going out for an hour; and, though Miss Jemima looked at him very hard, she allowed him to depart unquestioned.

“Cobbler” Horn’s landlord who was reputed to be enormously rich, lived in one of the most completely hidden parts of the town, which was approached by a labyrinth of very narrow and dirty streets. As “Cobbler” Horn pursued his tortuous way to this secluded abode, he pondered, with some misgiving, the chances that his errand would succeed. He knew his landlord to be a man of stubborn temper and of many whims; and he was by no means confident as to the reception with which his intended proposal would meet. It was characteristic that, as he thought of the difficulties of his enterprise, he prayed earnestly that, if God willed, he might obtain the gratification of his present desire. Then, with growing confidence and quickened step, he proceeded on his way, until, at length, he stood before his landlord’s house.

The house was a low, dingy building of brick, which stood right across the end of a squalid street, and completely blocked the way. Over the door was a grimy sign-board, on which could faintly be distinguished the vague yet comprehensive legend:

“D.FROUD,Dealer.”

The paint upon the crazy door was blistered and had peeled off in huge mis-shapen patches; thedoor-step was almost worn in two; the windows were dim with the dust of many years.

The door was opened by a withered crone, who, to his question whether Mr. Froud was in, answered in an injured tone, “Yes, he was in; he always was;” and, as she spoke, she half-pushed the visitor into a room on the left side of the entrance, and vanished from the scene. The room was very dark, and it was some time before “Cobbler” Horn could observe the nature of his surroundings. But, by degrees, as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he perceived that the centre of the apartment was occupied with an old mahogany table, covered with a litter of books and papers. There stood against the wall opposite to the window an ancient and dropsical chest of drawers. Facing the door was a fire-place, brown with rust, innocent of fire-irons, and piled up with heterogeneous rubbish. The walls and chimney-piece were utterly devoid of ornaments. The paper on the walls was torn and soiled, and even hung in strips. On the chimney-piece were several empty ink and gum bottles, an old ruler, and a further assortment of similar odds and ends. The only provision for the comfort of visitors consisted of two battered wooden chairs.

At first “Cobbler” Horn thought he was alone; but, the next moment, he heard himself sharply addressed, though not by name.

“Well, it’s not rent day yet. What’s your errand?”

It was a snarling voice, and came from the corner between the window and fire-place, peering in whichdirection, “Cobbler” Horn perceived dimly the figure of the man he had come to see. Mr. Daniel Froud had turned around from a high desk at which he had been writing in the gloom. How he contrived to see in so dark a corner was a mystery which belonged to the wider question as to the penetrating power of vision in general which he was known to possess. The small boys of the neighbourhood declared that he could see in the dark like a cat. He now moved a step nearer to “Cobbler” Horn, and stood revealed, an elderly, and rather undersized, grizzled, gnarled, and knotted man, dressed in shabby and antiquated clothes.

“Good morning, Mr. Froud,” said “Cobbler” Horn, extending his hand, “I’ve come to see you on a little business.”

“Of course you have,” was the angry retort; and taking no notice of his visitor’s proffered hand, the man stamped his foot impatiently on the uncarpeted floor. “No one ever comes to see me about anything else but business. And I don’t want them to,” he added with a grim chuckle. “Well, let us get it done. My time is valuable, if yours is not.”

“My time also is not without value,” was the prompt reply. “I want to ask you, Mr. Froud, if you will sell me the house in which I live.”

If Daniel Froud was surprised, he completely concealed the fact.

“If I would sell it,” was his coarse rejoinder, “you, ‘Cobbler’ Horn, would not be able to buy it.”

“I am well able to buy the house, Mr. Froud,” was the quiet response.

Daniel Froud keenly scrutinized his visitor’s face.

“I believe you think you are telling the truth,” he said. “Mending pauper’s boots and shoes must be a profitable business, then?”

“I have had some money left to me,” said “Cobbler” Horn.

The interest of Daniel Froud was awakened at once.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, “that is it, is it? But sit down, Mr. Horn,” and the grizzled reprobate pushed towards his visitor, who had hitherto remained standing, one of his rickety and dust-covered chairs.

“Cobbler” Horn looked doubtfully at the proffered seat, and said that he preferred to stand.

“If you are willing to sell me the house, Mr. Froud,” he said, “name your price. It is not my intention to waste your time.”

Daniel Froud still pondered. It was no longer a question whether he should sell “Cobbler” Horn the house: he was beginning already to consider how much he should ask for it.

“So you really wish to buy the house, Mr. Horn?” he asked.

“Such is my desire.”

“And you think you can pay the price?”

“I have little doubt on that point.”

“Well”—with a sudden jerk forward of his forbidding face—“what do you say to £600?”

Unsophisticated as he was, “Cobbler” Horn felt that the proposal was exorbitant.

“You are surely joking?” he said.

“You think the price too small?”

“I consider it much too large.”

“Well, perhaps I was joking, as you said. What do you think of £500?”

“I’m afraid even that is too much. I’ll give you £450.”

Daniel Froud hesitated for some minutes, but at last said, “Well, I’ll take your offer, Mr. Horn; but it’s a dreadful sacrifice.”

A few minutes sufficed to complete the agreement; and then, in taking his departure, “Cobbler” Horn administered a word of admonition to his grasping landlord.

“Don’t you know, friend,” he said, “that it is a grievous sin to try to sell anything for more than it is worth? And how contemptible it is to be so greedy of money! It does not seem to me that money is to be so eagerly desired, and especially if it does one no more good than yours seems to be doing you. Good morning, friend; and God give you repentance.”

Mr. Froud had listened open-mouthed to this plain-spoken homily. When he came to himself, he darted forward, and aimed a blow with his fist, which just failed to strike the back of his visitor, who was in the act of leaving the room.

Confronting him in the doorway was the old crone who kept his house.

“Was that Horn, the shoemaker?” she asked.

“Yes, woman.”

“Horn as has just come into the fortune?”

“Well—somewhat.”

“‘Somewhat!’ It’s said to be about a million of money! Look here!” and she showed him a begrimed and crumpled scrap of newspaper, containing a full account of “Cobbler” Horn’s fortune.

With a cry, Daniel Froud seized the woman, and shook her till it almost seemed as though the bones rattled in her skin.

“You hell-cat! Why didn’t you tell me that before?”

The wretched creature fell back panting against the door on the opposite side of the passage.

“Daniel Froud,” she said, when she had sufficiently recovered her breath, “the next time you do that I shall give you notice.”

With which dreadful threat, she gathered herself together, and hobbled back to her own quarter of the dingy house, leaving Mr. Froud to bemoan the absurdly easy terms he had made with “the Golden Shoemaker.”

“If I had only known!” he moaned; “if I had only known!”

That evening “Cobbler” Horn told his sister what he had done, and why he had done it; and she held up her hands in dismay.

“First,” she said, “I don’t see why you should have bought the house at all; and, secondly, you have paid far more for it than it is worth.”

FREE COBBLERY.

“I suppose you’ll be looking out for a tenant for this house, when you’ve found somewhere for us to go?” queried Miss Jemima, at breakfast the next morning.

“Well, no,” replied her brother, “I think not.” “Why,” cried Miss Jemima, “I hope we are not to go on living in this poky little place!”

“No, that is not exactly my intention, either,” said “Cobbler” Horn. “We must, I suppose, remove to another house. But I wish this one to remain very much as it is; I shall want to use it sometimes.”

“Want to use it sometimes!” echoed Miss Jemima, in a mystified tone.

“Yes; you see I don’t feel that I can give up my lifelong employment all at once. So I’ve been thinking that I’ll come to the old workshop, now and then, and do a bit of cobbling just for a change.”

Here he paused, and moved uneasily in his chair.

“It wouldn’t do to charge anything for my work now, of course,” he continued; “so I’ve made up my mind to do little bits of jobs, now and again, without any pay, for some of the poor people round about, just for the sake of old times, you know.”

Miss Jemima’s hands went up with their accustomed movement of dismay.

“Why, that will never do,” she cried. “You’ll have all the thriftless loons in the town bringing you their boots and shoes to mend.”

“I must guard against that,” was the quiet reply.

“Well,” continued Miss Jemima, in an aggrieved tone, “I altogether disapprove of your continuing to work as if you were a poor man. But you ought, at least, to make a small charge. Otherwise you will be imposed upon all round.”

Finding, however, that she could not move her brother from his purpose, Miss Jemima relinquished the attempt.

“Well, Thomas,” she concluded, “you can never have been intended for this world and its ways. There is probably a vacancy in some quite different one which you ought to have filled.”

The next few days were largely spent in house hunting; and, after careful investigation, and much discussion, they decided to take, for the present, a pleasantly situated detached villa, which stood on the road leading out past the field where, so many years ago, “Cobbler” Horn had found his little lostMarian’s shoe. The nearness of the house to this spot had induced him, in spite of his sister’s protest, to prefer it to several otherwise more eligible residences; and he was confirmed in his decision by the fact that the villa was no great distance from the humble dwelling he was so reluctant to leave. They were to have possession at once; and Miss Jemima was permitted to plunge without delay into the delights of buying furniture, engaging servants, and such like fascinating concerns.

During these busy days, “Cobbler” Horn himself was absorbed in the arrangements for the rehabilitation of his old workshop. He subjected it to a complete renovation, in keeping with its character and use. A new tile floor, a better window, a fresh covering of whitewash on the walls, and a new coat of paint for the wood-work, effected a transformation as agreeable as it was complete. He kept the old stool; but procured a new and modern set of tools, and furnished himself with a stock of the best leather the market could supply.

He had no difficulty in letting his poor customers know of his charitable designs, and he soon had as much work as he could do. As his sister had warned him, he had many applications from those who were unworthy of his help. He did not like to turn any of the applicants away; but he did so remorselessly in every instance in which, after careful investigation, the case broke down, his chief regret being that his gratuitous services were rarelysought by those who needed them most. But this is to anticipate.

It was in connection with what was regarded as thequixoticundertaking of Miss Jemima’s brother to mend, free of charge, the boots and shoes of his poor neighbours, that he soon became generally known as “Cobbler” Horn.

“THE GOLDEN SHOEMAKER” WAITS UPON HIS MINISTER.

“Cobbler” Horn’s correspondence was steadily accumulating. Every day brought fresh supplies of letters; and the humble cottage was in danger of being swamped by an epistolary inundation, which was the despair of “Cobbler” Horn, and a growing vexation to his sister’s order-loving soul.

For some time “the Golden Shoemaker” persisted valiantly in his attempt to answer every letter he received. Miss Jemima’s scornful disapproval was of no avail. In vain she declared her conviction that every other letter was an imposture or a hoax, and pointed out that, if people wanted their letters answered, they ought to enclose a stamp. Then, for the twentieth time, she repeated her suggestion that a secretary should be engaged. At first her brother waived this proposal aside; but at length it becameimperative that help should be sought. “Cobbler” Horn was like a man who attempts, single-handed, to cut his way through a still-accumulating snow-drift. The man must perish, if help do not come; unless “Cobbler” Horn secured assistance in dealing with his letters, it was impossible to tell what his fate might be. It was now simply a question by what means the needed help might best be obtained; and both “Cobbler” Horn and his sister agreed that the wisest thing would be to consult the minister of their church. This, accordingly, “Cobbler” Horn resolved to do.

“Cobbler” Horn’s minister officiated in a sanctuary such as was formerly called a “chapel,” but is now, more frequently designated a “church.” His name was Durnford; and he was a man of strongly-marked individuality—a godly, earnest, shrewd, and somewhat eccentric, minister of the Gospel. He was always accessible to his people in their trouble or perplexity, and they came to him without reserve. But surely his advice had never been sought concerning difficulties so peculiar as those which were about to be laid before him by “Cobbler” Horn!

It was about ten o’clock on the Monday morning following his visit to the lawyers, that “Cobbler” Horn sat in Mr. Durnford’s study, waiting for the minister to appear. He had not long to wait. The door opened, and Mr. Durnford entered. He was a middle-aged man of medium height, with keen yet kindly features, and hair and beard of iron grey. He greeted his visitor with unaffected cordiality.

“I’ve come to ask your advice, sir, under circumstances of some difficulty,” said “Cobbler” Horn, when they were seated facing each other before a cheerful fire.

This being a kind of appeal to which he was accustomed, the minister received the announcement calmly enough.

“Glad to help you, if I can, Mr. Horn,” he said.

There was a breeziness about Mr. Durnford which at once afforded preliminary refreshment to such troubled spirits as sought his counsel.

“Thank you, sir,” said “Cobbler” Horn, “I’m sure you will. You have heard of the sudden and unexpected——”

“To be sure!” broke in the minister, leaping to his feet, and grasping his visitor’s hand, “Pardon me; I quite forgot. Let me congratulate you. Of course it’s true?”

“Yes, sir, thank you; it’s true—too true, I’m afraid.”

Mr. Durnford laughed.

“How if I were to commiserate you, then?” he said.

“No, sir,” said “Cobbler” Horn gravely, “not that either. It’s the Lord’s will after all; and it’s a great joy to me to be able to do so much that I have long wished to do. It’s the responsibility that I feel.”

“Very good,” replied the minister; “such joy is the purest pleasure wealth can give. But the responsibility of such a position as yours, is, no doubt, as you say, very great.”

“Yes, sir; I feel that I hold all this wealth in trust from God; and I want to be a faithful steward. I am resolved to use my Lord’s money exactly as I believe He desires that I should—in fact as He Himself would use it, if He were in my place.”

“Excellent, Mr. Horn!” exclaimed the minister; “you have spoken like a Christian.”

“Thank you, sir. But there’s another thing; it seems so dreadful that one man should have so much money. Do you know, sir, I’m almost a millionaire?”

He made this announcement in very much the same tone in which he would have informed the minister that he was stricken with some dire disease.

“Is your trouble so great as that?” asked Mr. Durnford, in mock dismay.

“Yes, sir; and it’s a very serious matter indeed. It doesn’t seem right for me to be so rich, while so many have too little, and not a few nothing at all.”

“That can soon be rectified,” said Mr. Durnford.

“Perhaps so, sir; though it may not be so easy as you suppose. But there’s another matter that troubles me. I can’t think that this great wealth has been all acquired by fair means. Indeed I have only too much reason to suspect that it was not. I feel ashamed that some of the money which my uncle made should have become mine. I feel as though a curse were on it.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the minister, with a long-drawn sigh, “such feelings do you credit, Mr. Horn; but don’t you see that God means you to turn that curse into a blessing?”

“Yes; and yet I am almost inclined to wish my uncle had taken his money with him.”

“Scarcely a charitable wish, from any point of view,” said Mr. Durnford, smiling. “It seems to me that nothing could have been better than the arrangement as it stands.”

“Well, at any rate, I wish it were possible to restore their money to any persons who may have been wronged.”

“A laudible, but impossible wish, my dear sir; but, though you cannot restore your uncle’s wealth to those from whom it may have been wrongfully acquired, you can, in some measure, make atonement for the evil involved in its acquisition, by employing it for the benefit of those in general who suffer and are in need.”

“Yes,” assented “Cobbler” Horn, with emphasis; “if I thought otherwise, every coin of the money that I handled would scorch my fingers to the bone.”

After this there was a brief silence, and the minister sat back in his chair, with closed eyes, smiling gently.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, in another moment, starting forward, “I have been thinking of all the good that might be done, if every rich man were like you. But you came to ask my advice?”

“Yes, sir,” replied “Cobbler” Horn; “and I am keeping you too long.”

“Not at all, my dear sir! Your visit has refreshed me greatly. Your talk is like a cool breeze on a hot day. It is not often that a millionaire comesto discuss with me the responsibilities of wealth. But let me hear what the peculiar difficulty is of which you spoke.”

“Well, sir, there is a serious inconvenience involved in my new position, with which I am quite unable to grapple.”

“Ah,” said the minister, raising his eye-brows, “what is that?”

“Why it is just the number of letters I receive.”

“Of course!” cried the minister, with twinkling eyes. “The birds of prey will be upon you from every side; and your being a religious man will, by no means, mitigate the evil.”

“Ah, I have no doubt you are right, sir! And it’s a sort of compliment to religion, isn’t it?”

“Of course it is,” said Mr. Durnford; “and a very beautiful way of looking at it too.”

“Thank you, sir. Well, there are two sides to my difficulty. First I wish to answer every letter I receive; but I cannot possibly do it myself.”

“No,” said the minister. “But surely many of them need not be answered at all.”

“Yes, sir, by your leave. My sister says that many of the letters are probably impostures. But you see I cannot tell certainly which are of that kind. She also points out that very few of them contain stamps for reply. But I tell her that a few stamps, more or less, are of no moment to me now.”

“I don’t know,” broke in the minister, “which more to admire—your sister’s wisdom or your own goodness.”

“Cobbler” Horn deprecatingly waved his hand.

“Now, sir,” he resumed, “Jemima advises me to engage a secretary.”

“Obviously,” assented the minister, “that is your best course.”

“I suppose it is, sir; but I am all at sea, and want your help.”

“And you shall have it,” said the minister heartily. “There are scores of young men—and young women too—who would jump at the chance of such a post as that of your secretary would probably be.”

“Thank you, sir; but you said youngwomen?”

“Precisely. Young women often accept, and very efficiently fill, such posts.”

“Indeed? I don’t know how my sister——”

“Of course not. But suppose we look for a moment at the other side of your difficulty.”

“Very well, sir; the other trouble is that I find it hard to decide what answers to send to a good many of the letters. They are mostly applications for money; and it’s not easy to tell whether they are genuine. Then there are a great many appeals on behalf of all sorts of good objects. May I venture to hope, sir, that you will give me your advice in these matters?”

“With pleasure!” replied Mr. Durnford, with sparkling eyes.

“Thank you, sir; thank you very much indeed,” said “Cobbler” Horn, greatly relieved. “And will it be too much if I ask you to advise me, in due course, as to the best way of making this money ofmy uncle’s do as much good as possible, in a general way?”

“By no means,” protested Mr. Durnford, “I am entirely at your service, my dear sir. But now,” he added, after a pause, “I’ve been considering, and I think I can find you a secretary.”

“Ah! who is he, sir?”

“It is she, not he.”

“But, sir!”

“Yes, I know; but this is an exceptional young lady.”

“Ayounglady?”

“Yes, a capable, well-behaved, Christian young lady. I have known her for a good many years, and would recommend her to anybody. I know she is looking out for such a situation as this. She would serve you well—better than any young man, I know—and would be a most agreeable addition to your family circle. Besides, by engaging my friend, Miss Owen, you would be affording help in a case of real need and sterling merit. The girl has no parents, and has been brought up by some kind friends. But they are not rich, and she will have to make her own way. Now, look here; suppose the young lady were to run down and see you? She lives in Birmingham.”

“Do you really think it would be advisable?”

“Indeed I do. She’ll disarm Miss Horn at once. It’ll be a case of love at first sight.”

“Well, sir, let it be as you say.”

“Then I may write to her without delay?”

“If you please, sir.”

“Pray for me, Mr. Durnford,” said “Cobbler” Horn, as he took his leave.

“I will, my friend,” was the hearty response.

“It’s not often,” resumed “Cobbler” Horn, “that a Christian man is placed in circumstances of such difficulty as mine.”

The minister laughed heartily and long.

“I really mean it, sir,” persisted “Cobbler” Horn, with a deprecatory smile. “When I think of all that my having this money involves, I almost wish the Lord had been pleased to leave me in my contented poverty.”

“My dear friend,” said the minister, “that will not do at all. Depend upon it, the joy of using your wealth for the Lord, and for His ‘little ones,’ will far more than make up for the vanished delights of your departed poverty.”

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