CHAPTER XL.

TOMMY DUDGEON’S CONTRIBUTION.

After the despatch of the telegram, the words of Tommy Dudgeon, with reference to the young secretary, recurred once more to the mind of “Cobbler” Horn, and he mentioned them to his sister.

“This must have been what the good fellow meant,” he said. “You remember, Jemima, how fond they were of each other—Tommy and the child?”

“Yes,” responded Miss Jemima, reluctantly; for she still retained her dislike for “those stupid Dudgeons.”

“Do you know, Jemima, I have it on my mind to send for Tommy at once, and ask him what he really meant.”

“Send for him—to come in here?”

“Yes; why not?”

“Well, you must do as you like, I suppose.”

A moment’s reflection had convinced the goodlady that she had really no sound reason to advance against the proposal her brother had made; and she knew that, in any case, he would do as he thought fit.

Accordingly a messenger was despatched for Tommy Dudgeon with all speed; and the little huckster turned over to his brother, without compunction, an important customer whom he happened to be serving at the time, and hurried away to the bedside of his honoured friend.

The servant who, in obedience to orders received, showed Tommy up at once to “Cobbler” Horn’s room, handed in at the same time a telegram which had just arrived from Mr. Burton, saying that he and Mrs. Burton might be expected about three o’clock in the afternoon. “Cobbler” Horn placed the pink paper on the little table by his bedside, and turned to Tommy, who stood just within the doorway, nervously twisting his hat between his hands.

“Come in, Tommy, come in!” said “the Golden Shoemaker,” encouragingly, “you see I am almost well.”

Tommy advanced into the room; but being arrested by the sight of Miss Jemima, who stood at the bed-foot, he stopped short half-way between the bed and the door, and honoured that formidable lady with a trembling bow. Miss Jemima’s mood this morning was complacency itself, and she acknowledged the obeisance of the little huckster with a not ungracious nod. Greatly encouraged, Tommy moved a pace or two nearer to the bed.

“I’m deeply thankful, Mr. Horn,” he said, “to see you looking so well.”

“Thank you, Tommy,” responded “Cobbler” Horn, with a smile, as he reached out his hand. “The Lord is very good. No doubt He has more work for me to do yet.”

As Tommy almost reverently took the hand of his beloved and honoured friend he thought to himself, “I wonder whether he has considered what I said?”

“The last time we met, Tommy,” began “Cobbler” Horn, as though in answer to the unspoken question of the little man—“But, sit down, friend, sit down.”

Tommy protested that he would rather stand; but, being overborne, he effected a compromise, by placing himself quite forward on the edge of the chair, and depositing his hat on the floor, between his feet.

“You remember the time?” resumed “Cobbler” Horn.

“Oh yes; quite well!”

“It was the afternoon of the day I was taken ill.”

“Yes; and Mrs. Bunn said youwouldgo out in that dreadful rain.”

Tommy did not add that he himself, watching through his shop window, in the hope that his friend would come across to ask the meaning of his mysterious words, had, with a sinking heart, seen him walk off in the opposite direction through the drenching shower.

“Well,” said “Cobbler” Horn, with a smile, “I’ve had to pay for that, and shall be all the wiser, no doubt. But there was something you said that afternoon that I want to ask you about. At the time I thought I knew what you meant. But I am inclined now to think I was mistaken, and that your words referred to something quite different from what I then supposed. Do you remember what you said?”

It was impossible for Tommy Dudgeon to conceal the agitation of his mind. He rejoiced at the opportunity to make known his great discovery to his friend; and yet he trembled lest he should prove unequal to the task. He thought, for a moment, that he would gain time by seeming not to understand the reference his friend had made.

“What words do you speak of, chiefly, Mr. Horn?” he asked tremulously, “I said so many——”

But Tommy Dudgeon could not dissemble. He stammered, stopped, wiped his forehead, and stretched out his hands as though in appeal to the mercy of his hearers.

“Of course I know what words you mean!” he cried. “I wanted to tell you of something I had seen for weeks, but that you didn’t seem to see. And I can see it still; and there’s no mistake about it. I’m as certain sure of it, as that I am sitting on this chair. It was about the sec’tary, and some one else; and yet not anybody else, because they’re both the same. May I tell you, Mr. Horn? Can you bear it, do you think?”

“The Golden Shoemaker” regarded the eagerface of his little friend with glistening eyes; and Miss Jemima, leaning towards him over the framework of the iron bedstead, listened with an intent countenance, from which all trace of disfavour had vanished away.

“Yes,” said “Cobbler” Horn, in grave, calm tones; “tell us all. We are not unprepared.”

“Thank you,” said the little man, fervently. “But, oh, I wish you knew! I wish God had been pleased to make it known to you,” he added with a reminiscence of his Old Testament studies, “in a dream and vision of the night. Oh, my dear friend, don’t you see that what you’ve been longing and praying for all these years has come to pass—as we always knew it would; and—and that she’s come back! she’s come back? There, that’s what I meant!”

“Then it really was so,” said “Cobbler” Horn. “I’m surprised I did not perceive your meaning at the time.”

Tommy thought him wonderfully calm.

“But I must tell you, Tommy, that we have now very much reason to think that your surmise is correct.”

“Surmiseis not the word, Mr. Horn; I know she’s come back!”

“Of course you do,” interposed Miss Jemima, in emphatic tones.

Tommy looked gratefully towards the hitherto dreadful lady; and she regarded him with eyes which seemed to say, “you have won my favour once for all.”

“Can you tell us, Tommy,” asked “Cobbler” Horn, “what has made you so very sure?”

“Yes,” replied Tommy, with energy, “I’ll tell you. Everything has made me sure—the way she walks along the street, with her head up, and putting her foot down as if a regiment of soldiers wouldn’t stop her; and her manner of coming into the shop and saying, ‘How are you to-day, Mr. Dudgeon?’ and her sitting in the old arm-chair, and putting her head on one side like a knowing little bird, and asking questions about everything, and letting her eyes shine on you like stars. Begging your pardon, Mr. Horn, she’s just the little lassie all over. Why I should know her with my eyes shut, if she were only to speak up, and say, ‘Well, Tommy, how are you, to-day?’”

“But,” asked “Cobbler” Horn, whose heart, secretly, was almost bursting with delight, “may you not be mistaken, after all?”

“I am not mistaken,” replied Tommy firmly.

“But it’s such a long while ago,” suggested “Cobbler” Horn; “and—and she will be very much altered by this time. Youcan’tbe sure that a young woman is the same person as a little girl you haven’t seen for more than a dozen years.”

Herein, perhaps, “Cobbler” Horn’s own chief difficulty lay. “How,” he asked, “can I think of Marian as being other than a little girl?” Tommy Dudgeon did not seem to be troubled in that way at all.

“Yes,” he said, “I can be quite sure when I haveknown the little girl as I knew that one; and when I have watched, and listened to, the young woman, as I have been watching and listening to the sec’tary for these months past.”

“Cobbler” Horn and Miss Jemima exchanged glances.

“This is truly wonderful!” said he.

“Not at all!” retorted she. “The wonder is, Thomas, that you and I have been so blind all this time.”

“The Golden Shoemaker” smiled gently, as he lay back upon his pillows. The image of a small, dark-eyed child held possession of his mind; and he had not been able readily to bring himself to see his little Marian in any other form. As for any real doubt, there was only a shred of it left in his mind now. Yet he still said to himself that he must make assurance doubly sure.

“Well, Tommy,” he said, “we are very much obliged to you. And now, will you do us another kindness? We are expecting some friends this afternoon who may be able to give us a good deal of light on this subject. Will you come, when we send for you, and hear what they have to say?”

“That I will!” was the hearty response, “I’ll come, Mr. Horn, whenever you send.”

“You have met these friends before, Tommy,” said “Cobbler” Horn. “They are Mr. and Mrs. Burton—at the ‘Home,’ you know.”

Tommy nodded.

“They found Miss Owen when she was a very little girl; and brought her up as their own child; and we hope that what they may tell us about her will help us to decide whether what we think is true.”

Tommy nodded again with beaming eyes, and shortly afterwards took his leave.

“Now, brother,” said Miss Jemima, “you must take some rest, or we shall have you ill again.”

“Not much danger of that!” replied “Cobbler” Horn, smiling. “I think, please God, I’ve found a better medicine now, than all the doctors in the world could give me.”

“Yes; but you are excited, and the reaction will come, if you do not take care.”

“Well, perhaps you are right, Jemima. But first, don’t you think she had better be out of the way when Mr. and Mrs. Burton come?”

“Yes, I’ve thought of that; she can take that poor girl along the road for a drive.”

“A capital idea. Have it arranged, Jemima.”

“Very well. I’ll go and see about it at once; and you get to sleep.”

NO ROOM FOR DOUBT!

At the appointed time, Mr. and Mrs. Burton arrived. Being, as yet, ignorant of the purpose for which their presence was desired, they were full of conjectures. Miss Jemima received them in the dining-room, downstairs. The first question they asked related to “Cobbler” Horn’s health. “Was he worse?”

“No,” said Miss Jemima; “he is much better. But he wishes to consult you about a matter of great importance.”

Then, upon their protesting that they were in no immediate need of refreshment, Miss Jemima conducted her visitors upstairs to her brother’s room.

Though “Cobbler” Horn had not been to sleep since the morning, he was greatly refreshed by the quiet hours he had passed. He turned to greet Mr. and Mrs. Burton, as they came in.

“This is very good of you,” he said, putting out his hand.

Miss Jemima placed chairs for the visitors, and they took their seats near the bed.

“I think I must sit up,” said “Cobbler” Horn.

Miss Jemima helped him to raise himself upon his pillows, and then sat down on a chair at the opposite side of the bed.

“There now,” said “the Golden Shoemaker,” “we shall do finely. But, Jemima, how about our friend, Tommy?”

“He’ll be here directly” was the concise reply.

Mr. and Mrs. Burton waited patiently for “Cobbler” Horn to speak. Mrs. Burton was a shrewd-looking, motherly body; and her husband had the appearance of a capable and kindly man. They were both conscious of some curiosity, and even anxiety, with regard to what “Cobbler” Horn might be about to say. The peculiarity of the situation was that he should have sent for them both. Perhaps each had some vague prevision of the communication he was about to make.

“Now, dear friends,” he said, at last, “no doubt you will be wondering why I have sent for you in such a hurry.”

Both Mr. Burton and his wife protested that they were always at the service of Mr. Horn, and expressed the assurance that he would not have sent for them without good cause.

“Thank you,” he said. “I think you will admit that, in this instance, the cause is as good as can be.”

Looking upon the kindly faces of these good Christian people, “Cobbler” Horn wondered how they would receive the news he would probably have to impart. He must proceed cautiously. At the same time, he was thankful that his little lost child—if, indeed, it were so—had been committed by the great Father to such kindly hands.

“You will not mind, dear friends,” he resumed, “if I ask you one or two questions about the circumstances under which my—Miss Owen came into your charge when a child?”

“By no means, sir!” The startling nature of the question caused no hesitation in the reply. Indeed, though startled, these good people were not so very much surprised. They had not, perhaps, been actually expecting that this would prove to be the subject on which they had been summoned to confer. But, ever since their adopted daughter had entered the household of this man, whose own little daughter had been lost, just about the time that she must have left her home, both Mr. and Mrs. Burton had secretly thought that perhaps, as the result, she would find her own parent, and they would lose their child. Perhaps it was on account of the vagueness of this thought, or because of the painful anticipations to which it gave rise, or for both these reasons, that the good couple had made no mention to each other of its presence in their respective minds. They glanced at one another now; and, by some subtle influence, each became aware that the other’s mind had been occupied by this disturbing thought.

“You will believe,” said “Cobbler” Horn, “that I have good reasons for the questions I am going to ask?”

“We are sure of that, sir,” responded Mr. Burton.

“Yes, indeed,” said Mrs. Burton.

“Well, can you tell me in what year, and at what time of the year, you found the child?”

“It was on the 2nd of June, 18—” said Mrs. Burton, promptly.

“Cobbler” Horn and Miss Jemima exchanged glances. It was the very year in which, on that bright May morning, little Marian had vanished, like a flash of departing sunshine, from their lives.

“About what age would you suppose the child to have been at the time?”

“She told us her age,” said Mr. Burton.

“Yes,” pursued his wife, “she was a very indistinct talker, and her age was almost the only thing we could actually make out. She said she was five; and that was about what she looked.”

“Do you think, now,” continued “Cobbler” Horn, with another glance at his sister, “that you could give us anything like a description of the child?”

“My wife can do that very well,” said Mr. Burton. “She has often told Miss Owen what she looked like when we found her crying in the road.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Burton, “I remember exactly what she was like. She had black hair—as she has now, and her eyes were very dark; her skin was even browner than it is now, being so dirty; and she had very rosy cheeks. It was evident that some of herclothes had been stolen. Indeed they were almost all gone, and she had scarcely anything on but an old, and very dirty shawl, which was wrapped round her body so tightly that it must have hurt her very much. She had lost one of her shoes, and her foot was bound up with a filthy piece of rag. She had both her socks on, but they were in dreadful holes. She was wearing a torn sun-bonnet, which was covered with mud; and—let me see—one of its strings was missing. And, yes, her one shoe was cut about over the top, as if it had been done on purpose with a knife. She had evidently been in very bad hands, poor little mite!” and the honest, kindly face was darkened with a frown, as Mrs. Burton clenched her plump fist in her lap.

Miss Jemima had been listening with intense interest, from her position on the other side of the bed; and now interposed with a question, in her own quick way.

“What was the pattern of the sun-bonnet? Was it a small, pink sprig, on a white ground?”

“Why, you must have seen it, ma’am!” was Mrs. Burton’s startled reply. “That was the very thing!”

“Perhaps I have,” responded Miss Jemima, “and perhaps I haven’t.”

Mrs. Burton hardly knew what to say.

“Well,” she resumed, at last, “Miss Owen has kept the sun-bonnet, and the one shoe, and two or three other little things; and I’m sure she will be glad to let you see them. But, may I ask, Miss Horn, what——”

But “Cobbler” Horn interrupted her.

“I think, Jemima, we had now better tell our kind friends why we are asking these questions.”

“Yes,” said Miss Jemima; “I should have told them at first.”

“Well,” resumed “Cobbler” Horn, turning to Mr. and Mrs. Burton, and speaking with an emotion which he could no longer conceal, “we have reason to believe that your adopted daughter—don’t let me shock you—is our little lost Marian, of whom you have several times heard me speak; and we are anxious to make sure if this is really the case.”

In the nature of things, Mr. and Mrs. Burton were not so much surprised as they would have been if the course of events had not, in some measure, prepared them for the announcement which “Cobbler” Horn had now made. Yet they experienced a slight shock; for even an expected crisis cannot be fully realized till it actually arrives.

For a moment, there was silence in the room. Then Mrs. Burton was the first to speak.

“Excuse us, dear sir,” she said calmly, “if we are somewhat startled at what you have said. And yet we are not altogether surprised. You will not think that strange?”

“No, ma’am,” said “Cobbler” Horn, in a musing tone, “not altogether strange, perhaps. But, shall I explain a little further? It was only last evening that I was led to entertain the thought that Miss Owen might actually prove to be my lost child. She was telling me, as she had done several times before, all about how you found her, and of your goodness toher; and she spoke last night, for the first time, of the one shoe she was wearing when you found her in the road. Now you may judge how I was startled, on hearing this, when I tell you that, just after Marian was lost, we picked up one of her shoes in a field, over which she must have wandered away. So, this morning, without telling her my reason, I asked her to let me see the little shoe she had worn so long ago. She at once fetched it; and here it is, and with it the one we found in the field.”

So saying, he drew, from underneath the bed-clothes, the two little shoes; and placed them side by side upon the counterpane.

Mr. and Mrs. Burton rose and approached the bed.

“Yes,” said Mr. Burton, “that is undoubtedly Miss Owen’s little shoe.”

“And this,” said Mrs. Burton, “is unquestionably its fellow,” and, taking up the shoes, she held them towards her husband.

“You are certainly right, my dear.”

Then there was silence for a brief space, while these two simple-hearted people bent, with deep emotion, over the little baby shoes which seemed to prove so much.

Mrs. Burton was the first to speak.

“Well,” she said, calmly, but with a quivering lip, “we are to lose our child; but the will of the Lord be done.”

Mr. Burton’s only utterance was a deep sigh.

“Nay,” said “Cobbler” Horn, “if it really be as I cannot help hoping it is, you will, perhaps, not loseso much as you think. But I am sure you will not begrudge me the joy of finding my child.”

“No, indeed, dear sir. On the contrary, we will rejoice with you as well as we can—and with her.”

These were the words of Mrs. Burton, and they received confirmation from her husband.

At this point, Tommy Dudgeon quietly entered the room, and took his seat, at a motion from Miss Jemima, behind the chairs on which Mr. and Mrs. Burton were sitting.

“I have been anxious,” resumed “Cobbler” Horn, “thoroughly to assure myself that there was no mistake. Here is our friend, Dudgeon, now. You saw him the day we opened the ‘Home.’”

Perceiving Tommy for the first time, Mr. and Mrs. Burton gave him a hearty greeting.

“Our friend knows,” continued “Cobbler” Horn, “that I’ve been very sceptical about the good news.”

“Very much so!” said Tommy, nodding his head.

“Cobbler” Horn smiled.

“He was the first to find it out. You must know that he took much kind interest in my little girl; and it was a great grief to him that she was lost. And when your adopted daughter came to us, he was not long in forming conjectures as to who she might be. In a very short time, as a matter of fact, he had quite made up his mind. He tried to tell me about it; but I was too stupid to understand him, and so it was left for me to find out the happy truth by accident. Tell our friends, Tommy, how you came to discover who Miss Owen really was.”

Thus enjoined, Tommy, nothing loath, recounted once more the story of his great discovery. Mr. and Mrs. Burton listened with deep attention, and, having put several questions to Tommy, admitted that what he had said afforded much confirmation to the supposition that Miss Owen was the long-lost Marian.

“I have a thought about the child’s name,” said Mrs. Burton after a brief pause. “It comes to me that what she gave us as her name sounded quite as much likeMarian HornasMary Ann Owen.”

“Why yes,” said Miss Jemima, “now I think of it, she used to pronounce her name very much as though it had been something likeMary Ann Owen. As well as I can remember, it was ‘Ma—an O—on.’”

“I believe you are right, Jemima,” said her brother.

“It must be admitted,” interposed Mr. Burton quickly, “thatMary Ann Owenwas a very reasonable interpretation of that combination of sounds.”

“Undoubtedly it was,” assented “Cobbler” Horn.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Burton, “what you say, Miss Horn, is very much like the way in which the child pronounced her name. And there’s another thing which may serve as a further mark. She had on, beneath the old shawl, a little chemise, on which were worked, in red, the letters ‘M.H.’”

“I know it!” cried Miss Jemima. “I always marked her clothes like that. You used to laugh at me, Thomas; but what do you say now?”

“Well, well!” said “the Golden Shoemaker” softly.

“And listen to me,” resumed Miss Jemima. “I am beginning to recollect, too. Marian’s hair was verystubborn; and there were two or three tufts at the back which always would stand up, like black feathers.”

“I remember that very well,” said Mrs. Burton, with a smile.

“Of course,” agreed her husband; “and many a joke we used to have about it. I called her my little blackbird.”

“And then,” continued Miss Jemima, “there was another thing. A few days before the child’s disappearance, she fell down and hurt her knee; and there were two scars, one on the knee, and another just below.”

“Ah,” said Mrs. Burton, “I remember those scars. Don’t you, John?”

“Yes; and I used to tell her she was an old soldier, and had been in the wars.”

“So you did; and—dear me, how old memories are beginning to come back!—she talked a great deal, not only of her ‘daddy,’ but of ‘Aunt ’Mima.’ I wonder I didn’t think of that before. Perhaps, ma’am——”

“That’s me!” cried Miss Jemima. “My name’s Jemima; and ‘Aunt ’Mima’ was what she always called me. There, Thomas, do you want any further proof?”

“Cobbler” Horn was lying with his hands over his face, and the bed was shaking with his convulsive efforts to repress his strong emotion. Fear had impelled him to withstand his growing conviction that his long-lost child had been restored to him—fear of the consequences of a mistake, both to himself, and to the bright young girl whom he had already learnt to love as though she were indeed his child. But now, one after another, his doubts had been beaten down. He had listened eagerly to every word that had been spoken around his bed, and conviction had taken absolute possession of his mind. Yet, for the moment, the shock of his great joy seemed almost more than his weakened nerves could bear.

His friends stood around the bed, fearing for him. But, in a few moments, he withdrew his hands from his face, which was wet with the gracious tears of joy.

He clasped his hands, and looked reverently upward.

“‘My soul doth magnify the Lord; and my spirit hath rejoiced in God, my Saviour.’”

That was all.

“You would like us to leave you, brother?” asked Miss Jemima.

“For a very short time.”

He was quite himself again.

“She is out still, isn’t she?”

“Yes,” replied Miss Jemima. “She will be in soon, no doubt. You would like to see her. Well, leave that to me.”

Then they left him to his blissful thoughts.

For many minutes, he gratefully communed with God. He was thankful his child had come back to him so beautiful, and clever, and good. He couldregard her with as much pride as love; though he told himself he would have loved her, and done all in his power to make her happy, whatever she had proved to be. And then, how glad he was that she had found her way into his heart before he knew she was his child.

Great, indeed, was the joy of “the Golden Shoemaker!” That very day he was to clasp his long-lost child to his heart!

The door of his room had been left ajar. Presently he heard the front-door open downstairs; and then there were voices in the hall, one of which he recognised as hers. The next moment he knew that she was coming upstairs. They had not told her the great news yet, of course? No; she was going direct to her own room.

He took up the little shoes, which had been left lying on the bed. How well he remembered making them! He had selected for the purpose the very best bit of leather in his stock. He was proceeding to examine more closely the shoe that had been mutilated, when he heard the sound of a door being opened which he knew to be that of his young secretary’s room.

Would she come to him before going downstairs? In truth, he wished not to see her until she had been told the great news. He breathed more freely when he heard her foot on the stairs.

When “Cobbler” Horn had been alone about half an hour, Miss Jemima returned to the room. Mrs. Burton, she said, was in the dining-room, with——Marian.There was just the slightest hesitation in Miss Jemima’s pronunciation of the name. Her brother’s tea would come up in a few minutes. After he had taken it, he would perhaps be ready for the interview he so much desired.

“Tea!”

“Oh, but,” said his matter-of-fact sister, “you must try to take it—as a duty.”

“I’ll do my best,” he said; “but I must be up and dressed before she comes, Jemima.”

Miss Jemima demurred, but ultimately agreed.

“I should like Mr. Durnford to be here,” he continued, “and Tommy Dudgeon, and Mr. and Mrs. Burton.”

“They shall all be present,” said Miss Jemima.

“And you, Jemima, you will take care to be in the room at the time.”

“Brother,” responded the lady, “you may trust me for that.”

FATHER AND DAUGHTER.

Mrs. Burton, closeted with her adopted daughter, in the dining-room, found, to her surprise, that Miss Owen was not unprepared for the communication she was about to receive. Since her discovery of the little shoe—the fellow of her own—in her employer’s safe, and the startling conclusion at which she had thereupon arrived, the young secretary had been in a vaguely expectant state of mind. The great fact she had discovered could not long remain concealed from the person whom, next to herself, it most concerned. Of course, it was impossible for her to speak out. But she had only to wait, and all would come right.

She saw now why “Cobbler” Horn had been so much agitated to hear that, when she was found by Mr. and Mrs. Burton, she was wearing only one shoe;and she was not surprised, the next morning, when he asked to see the shoe itself. As the day passed, she was instinctively aware that something unusual was going on. The visit of Tommy Dudgeon; the circumstance that she was not summoned to “Cobbler” Horn’s room as usual, during the day; and her being unexpectedly despatched to take Susie Martin for a drive—were all signs pointing in one direction; and when, on her return from the drive, she was greeted with the announcement that Mrs. Burton was waiting to see her in the dining-room, she felt sure that the great secret was known. And she could not be much surprised, therefore, when, in the end, Mrs. Burton proceeded to make in set terms, the communication with which she was charged.

“My dear,” said the good lady, fondly kissing her adopted daughter, “I’m sure you will be surprised to see me.”

“I’m delighted, at any rate, dear mother,” was the pardonably evasive reply.

“Not more than I am!” exclaimed the good creature. Notwithstanding the loss she expected to sustain through the discovery which had been made, she had schooled herself to rejoice in the happiness which had come to her child. “But,” she added, “you, my dear, will be more delighted still, when you hear the news I have to tell.”

As she spoke, she led the young secretary to a chair, and, having caused her to be seated, sat down on another chair by her side. Then she took her companion’s hand and held it tenderly in her lap.

“My dear, I want to ask you something.”

The good lady tried to be calm, but her tones grew tremulous as she spoke. Miss Owen, too, was becoming excited, in spite of herself.

“Yes, mother dear,” and the girl seemed to put special and loving emphasis on the word “mother.”

“Do you remember,” continued Mrs. Burton, “how, when you were all at Daisy Lane, at the opening of the ‘Home,’ we were talking about Mr. Horn having lost his little girl in some mysterious fashion; and you said, laughing, what fun it would be, if you turned out to be that very little girl?”

“Yes, mother,” was the reply, uttered in low and agitated tones, “I remember very well.”

“You didn’t think that such a wonderful thing would ever come to pass, did you, dear?” asked Mrs. Burton, gently stroking the back of the plump little brown hand, which lay passive in her lap.

“No,” replied the girl, “I certainly did not; and it was just a mad joke, of course.”

As she spoke her whole frame quivered, and she made as though she would have withdrawn her hand and risen to her feet. Mrs. Burton tightened her grasp upon the fluttering hand in her lap, and gently restrained the agitated girl.

“I haven’t finished yet, dear,” she said. “You know the saying that ‘many a true word is spoken in jest’?”

“Yes, yes——”

“Well—try to be calm, my child—it has been found out——”

“I know what you are going to say, mother,” broke in the young girl. “It is that I have found my father—my very own; though I can never forget the only father I have known these years, and I haven’t found another mother, and don’t want to.”

Then the woman and the child—for she was little more—became locked in a close embrace. After some minutes, Mrs. Burton unclasped the young arms from her neck, and, sitting hand in hand with her adopted daughter, she told her all the wondrous tale.

“So you see, my child,” she concluded, “your name is not Owen after all; it is not even Mary Ann.”

“No,” said the girl, with a bewitching touch of scorn. “Mary Ann Owen, forsooth! I always had my doubts. Horn is not much better in itself. But it is my father’s name; and Marian is all that could be desired. And so I really am that little Marian of whom I have heard so many charming things! How sweet! But, mother, you must be the very same to me as ever; and I must find room for two fathers now, instead of one.”

“Yes, my dear, I feel sure you will not love us any the less for this great change.”

“Mother, mother, never speak of that again! If it had not been for you, I might never have come to know anything about myself, to say nothing of all the dreadful things which might have happened. Oh, God is good!”

“He is indeed, dear! But you will be longing to go to your father.”

“Yes,” said the girl, with a quiver of shy delight; “what does he say?”

“My dear, he is thankful beyond measure.”

“But can he bear to see me just yet?”

“He is preparing to receive you now. Come!”

“Cobbler” Horn had finished his tea, and was dressed, and sitting in an easy-chair in his bedroom. Those about him had feared that the coming effort would be too much for his strength. But there was no need for their apprehension. Joy was proving a splendid tonic. He sat calm and collected, awaiting the appearance of his child.

His friends were all around him. Mr. Durnford, Tommy Dudgeon, Mr. Burton—all were there; and there, too, was Miss Jemima, no longer grim, but subdued almost to meekness.

Then it was done in a moment. The door opened, and Mrs. Burton entered, leading the young secretary by the hand. An instant later the girl ran forward, with a little cry, and flung herself into the outstretched arms of her waiting father.

For some seconds they remained thus. Then she gradually slipped down upon her knees, and let her head fall upon his breast, while her arms embraced him still, and his hand held closely to him her nestling face. Speech was impossible on either side. She was weeping the sweet tears of joy, while he vainly struggled to find utterance for his love.

One by one, their friends had stolen out of theroom. Even Miss Jemima had been content to go. The memory of that chastened lady was very vivid to-night, and she felt humbled and subdued.

Observing the silence, “Cobbler” Horn looked up, and perceived that they were alone.

“They have all gone, Marian,” he said, gently. “Won’t you look up, and let father see your face?”

She lifted her face, bedewed yet radiant; and he took it tenderly between his hands.

“It is indeed the face of my little Marian,” he said, fondly. “How blind I must have been!”

He gazed long and lovingly—feasting his eyes upon the brown, glowing face, in every feature of which he could now trace so plainly those of his little Marian of days gone by. The hope which he had never quite relinquished was fulfilled at last! His gracious Lord had justified his confidence, as, indeed, there had never been any reason to doubt that He would.

“You feel quite sure about it, my dear; don’t you?” he asked.

“Yes, father dear,” she answered, in a thoughtful, contented tone. “There are so many things that help to make me sure.”

Then she told him of her strange feeling of familiarity with the old house and street. She spoke of the little shoes, and of her having seen the one in the safe. She told him what she had overheard in the tent at Daisy Lane about her resemblance to himself.

“And besides,” she concluded, “after all that——mother has told me, how can I doubt? But now, daddy—I may call you that, mayn’t I?”

“The Golden Shoemaker” pressed convulsively the little hand he held.

“That is what Marian—what you always called me when you were a child, my dear. Nothing would please me better.”

“Then ‘daddy’ it shall be. And now, do you know, daddy, I’m beginning to remember things in a vague sort of way. I’m just like some one waking up after a good sleep. Things, you know, that happened before one went to sleep, come back by degrees at such a time; and, in the same way, recollections are growing on me now of my childhood, and especially of the time when I was lost. Let me see, now! I’m like some one looking into a magic crystal to see the future, only I want to recall the past. After thinking very hard, I’ve been able to call up some remembrance of the day I ran away from home. I seem to remember being very angry with someone, and wanting to get away. Then there was a woman, and a man, but chiefly a woman, and some dark place that I was in. And I think they must have treated me badly in some way.”

“Cobbler” Horn thought for a moment.

“Why,” he said, “that dark place must have been the wood, on the other side of the field where I found your shoe.”

“Yes, no doubt; and wasn’t it in that wood that you picked up the string of my sun-bonnet?”

“To be sure it was!”

“Yes; and perhaps it was there that I was stripped of my clothes. When I fell into the hands of Mr. and Mrs. Burton, my chief garment was an old ragged shawl. My one shoe, and my socks, and my sun-bonnet, were almost all I had besides. I’ve kept all the things except the socks, and you must see them by and bye, daddy.”

“Of course I must.”

But, having found his child, he did not greatly care just now about anything else.

Presently she spoke again.

“Daddy!”

“Yes, Marian?”

“I’m so thankful it has turned out to be you!”

“Yes, my dear?” responded the happy father, in a tone of enquiry.

“I mean I’m glad it’s you who are my father. It might have been somebody quite different, you know.”

“Yes,” he answered again, with a beaming face.

“I’m glad, you know, daddy, just because you’re exactly the kind of father I want—that’s all.”

“And I also am glad that it is you, little one,” he responded. “And how thankful we ought to be that we learnt to love one another before getting to know who we were!”

“Yes,” she said, “it would have been queer, and——not at all nice, if we had first been introduced to each other as father and daughter, and told it was our duty to love one another without delay. Andthen there’s another thing. Though, at first, it seemed cruel to you, daddy, that your little girl should have been lost for so many years, when I think how much more—very likely—we shall love one another, than we ever should have done if I had not been lost, and how much happier we shall be together, it seems quite kind of God to have allowed us to be separated for a little while—especially as He found such good friends to take care of me in the meantime.”

“Cobbler” Horn gently stroked the dark head, which still nestled against his breast.

“We at least, little one,” he said, “can say that ‘all things work together for good.’ But now, there are other things that we must talk about. You have come back, Marian, to a very different home from the one you left. Your father was a poor man when you went away; he is a rich one now. Are you glad?”

“Oh yes, daddy,” she answered, simply, “for your sake, and because I think my daddy is just the best man in the world to have charge of money. And you know,” she added, archly, “that, in that respect, your daughter is after your own heart.”

“I know that well.”

“You must let me help you more than ever, daddy.”

She seemed scarcely to have realized the fact that she was heiress to all his wealth.

“You shall, my dear,” he said, fondly; “but you mustn’t forget that all I have will be yours one day.”

She started violently.

“Well now, I declare!” she gasped. “I had scarcely thought of that. I was so glad and thankful to have found my father, that I forgot he had brought me a fortune. Well, daddy, that won’t make any difference. We’ll still do our best to put all this money to the right use. And, as for my being your heiress—you must understand, sir, that you’ve got to live for ever; so there’s an end of that.”

She had withdrawn herself from his embrace, and, kneeling back, was looking at him with dancing eyes.

“Well, darling,” he said, with an indulgent smile, “we must leave that. But there is something else that I must tell you. When I was arranging about the disposal of all this money, in case I should be taken away, I thought of my little Marian; and I had it set down in my will that you were to have everything after me, if you should be found. But, beside that, I directed the lawyers to invest for you the sum of £50,000. But, let me see, I think I must have told you about this at the time.”

“Of course you did, daddy, the very day you came back from London, just before you went to America!”

“So I did. Well, now, Marian, that money is all your own from this time.”

“Oh, daddy! daddy! How shall I thank you? So I shall be able to do something on my own account now!”

Did no stray thought flit through her mind of all the gaiety and pleasure so much money might buy? Perhaps; but she was her father’s own child.

After a little more loving talk, the young secretary suddenly sprang to her feet.

“I am forgetting myself sadly! The evening letters will be in.”

“Cobbler” Horn started. He had forgotten that she was his secretary.

“I shall have to look out for another secretary, now,” he said, with a comical air of mock dismay.

“And, pray sir, why?” she demanded, standing before him in radiant rebellion. “I would have you to know there is no vacancy.”

Then she laughed in her bewitching way.

“But, my dear——”

“Say no more, daddy; it’s quite settled. I shall very likely ask for an increase of salary; but there must be no talk of dismissal.”

Again she laughed; and, in spite of himself, the happy father joined in her merriment.

“Well now, I must go,” she said, with a parting kiss. “I’ll send Miss Horn—— Why, she’s my aunt! I declare I’d quite overlooked that!”

“Yes, my dear; and a very kind aunt you’ll find her.”

“I’m sure of that. But I’m afraid she’ll be thinking me a very undutiful niece.”

At this moment, the door opened, and Miss Jemima herself walked in.

“I thought it was time I came,” she said, in her usual matter-of-fact way. “You must be thinking of getting back to bed, Thomas.”

Her niece interrupted her by throwing her arms around her neck, and giving her a hearty kiss.

“Aunt Jemima, I have to beg your pardon,” and she kissed her again; “but you didn’t give me time, you were all off like a flock of sheep.”

“I think it is my place to beg your pardon, and not yours to beg mine,” replied Miss Jemima, in the most natural way in the world. “I fear it was largely through me that you ran away from home.”

“Did I actually run away, then?”

“I think there’s little doubt of it. But, whether you ran away or not, the fact remains that my treatment of you had been anything but kind. I meant well, but was mistaken; and I’m thankful to have the opportunity of asking you to forgive me.”

“Don’t say another word about it, auntie!” cried Marian, kissing her once more. “It’s literally all forgotten. And I dare say I was a troublesome little thing. But let me see. You haven’t seen my treasures yet—except the shoe. I’ll fetch them.”

In a few moments she had brought her little sun-bonnet, and the other relics of her childhood which she had preserved. It will not be difficult to imagine the tender interest with which Aunt Jemima, and even “Cobbler” Horn himself, gazed on those simple mementos of the past. The severed bonnet-string was lying on the bed. Marian caught it up, and fitted it upon the bonnet.

“I must sew my bonnet-string on,” she said, gaily.

Her father laughed indulgently, and even Aunt Jemima smiled.

“Ah,” she said, “and I too have a store of treasures to display,” and she told of the little box in which she had kept the tiny garments Marian had worn in the days of old.

“How delicious?” cried the girl. “You will let me see them, by and bye, auntie, won’t you? But now I really must be off to my letters.”

THE TRAMP’S CONFESSION.

Before “the Golden Shoemaker” had returned to his bed the doctor arrived, and despotically demanded how he had dared to leave it without the permission of his medical man. At first the doctor prognosticated serious consequences from what he was pleased to call his patient’s “intemperate and unlicensed haste.” But, when he came the next day, and found “Cobbler” Horn considerably better, instead of worse, he changed his mind.

“My dear sir,” he said, “what have you been doing?”

“I’ve been taking a new tonic, doctor,” replied “Cobbler” Horn, with a smile; and he told him the great news.

“Well, well,” murmured the doctor; “so it has actually turned out like that! I have often thought that there were many less likely things; and ever since you told me how closely the young lady’searly history resembled that of your own child, I have had a sort of expectation that I should one day hear the announcement you have just made. Well, my dear sir, I congratulate you both—as much on the fitness of the fact, as on the fact itself.”

“Cobbler” Horn’s “new tonic” acted liked magic, and he was soon out of the doctor’s hands. In a few days’ time he was downstairs; and at the end of a fortnight he had resumed his ordinary routine of life.

As far as outward appearances were concerned, the great discovery which had been made produced but little difference in the house. The servants had, indeed, been informed of the change in the position of the young secretary. It was also understood that she was to have things pretty much her own way. It was moreover tacitly admitted that almost unlimited arrears of filial privilege were due to the newly-recovered daughter of the house; and she herself evidently felt that the arrears of filial duty lying to her charge were quite equal in amount. “The Golden Shoemaker” regarded his new-found child with a very tender love; and even Miss Jemima manifested towards her an indulgent, if somewhat prim, affection. The gentle affectionateness of the girl towards both her father and her aunt was beautiful in the extreme. Yet, even towards Miss Jemima, she was delightfully free from constraint; and it would have been difficult to decide whether to admire more the loving familiarity of the niece, or the complaisancy of the aunt.

In the matter of the secretaryship Marian was firmness itself. “Cobbler” Horn wished her to give it up; and Miss Jemima was shocked at the idea that she should propose to retain it for a single day. But she dismissed their remonstrances with a fine scorn. What did they take her for? Was she any less fit for the post of secretary than she had been before? Her duties had been a pleasure from the first; they would afford her greater delight than ever now. And why should they bring in a stranger to pry into their affairs? They might give her more salary, if they liked—and here she laughed merrily; but she wasn’t going to give up the work she liked more than anything else in the world.

One perplexing question yet remained unsolved—What had happened to Marian between the day when she had left home and the time when she had been found by Mr. and Mrs. Burton? The girl’s own vague memories of that unhappy period, together with the condition in which she had been found, indicated that she had fallen into the hands of bad characters of some kind. Was the mystery ever to be fully solved? To this question the course of events brought very speedily a complete reply.

One evening, about a fortnight after the last-recorded events, an elderly tramp was sitting against a haystack upon some farm premises, at no great distance from the town of Cottonborough. His age might be sixty, or, allowing for the rough life he had led, something less. He looked jaded and unwell. The day had been very warm, and the man waseating, with no great appetite, a sumptuous supper of German sausage and bread. The sausage had been wrapped in a piece of newspaper, which spread out upon his knees, was now doing duty as a tablecloth. Having finished his meal, the man lazily glanced at the paper; but finding its contents, at first, to possess no particular interest, he was about to crumple it up and throw it away, when his eye lighted on a paragraph which induced him to pause. He smoothed out the paper, and raised it nearer to his eyes.

“Well,” he muttered, “I ain’t much of a scholard; but I means to get to the bottom o’ this ’ere.”

With intense eagerness, he began to spell out the words of the paragraph which had arrested his attention. It was headed, “‘The Golden Shoemaker’ recovers his daughter, supposed to have been stolen by tramps in her childhood.” From line to line he laboured painfully on. Many times his progress was stayed by some formidable word; and again and again he was interrupted by a violent cough; but at length he had ascertained the contents of the paragraph. It contained as much as was known of the history of Marian Horn. It told how, at the age of five, she had, as was supposed, run away from home, and, as recently-discovered circumstances seemed to indicate, fallen into the hands of evil persons; and how all trace of her had then been lost until a few weeks afterwards, when, as had now become known, she was found, a wretched little waif, upon the highway, and adopted by Mr. and Mrs. Burton. The circumstances of her after lifewere then set forth; and the narrative concluded with a glowing account of her re-union with her friends. The tramp deeply pondered this romantic story.

“Ah,” he said to himself, “that must ha’ been the little wench as me and the old woman took to. It was somewhere here away. I remember about the shoe as she’d lost. They must ha’ found it. The old woman cut the other shoe, same as it says here. It were a bad thing of us to take the kid, that it were.”

At this point the man was seized with a violent fit of coughing. When it had subsided, he resumed his half-muttered meditations. “Well, I’m glad as the little ’un got took care on, arter all, and has got back to her own natural born father at last; for she were a game little wench, and no mistake. She were a poor people’s child when we got hold on her. But I’ve heerd tell o’ ‘the Golden Shoemaker,’ as they calls him. It must ha’ been arter she was lost that he got his money. Well, I feels sorry, like, as we didn’t try to find her friends. But the old gal were that onscrupulous, she didn’t stick at nothink, she didn’t. As sure as my name’s Jake Dafty, this ’ere’s a queer go.”

Thus mused Jake, the tramp, sitting against the haystack; and his musings were, ever and anon, disturbed by his racking cough. He felt indisposed to move. As he brooded over the past, his mind became uneasy, he was conscious of a vague desire to make confession of the evil he had done. Did hefeel that the sands of his life were almost sped? And was conscience waking at last?

At length, between his fits of coughing, he was overtaken by sleep. The night was chilly after the warm day. The sun went down, and the stars peeped out serenely upon the frowzy and wretched tramp asleep against the haystack; and the dew settled thickly on his ragged beard and tattered clothes. Every now and then he was shaken by his cough; but he was weary, and remained asleep. And, in his sleep, the past came back more vividly than it had ever re-visited him in his waking hours. He seemed to be present at the despoiling and ill-using of a dark-eyed child, whom he might have delivered, and did not; and, from time to time, he moved uneasily in his sleep, and groaned aloud.

Thus passed the night; and, in the morning, Jake, being found by the farm people, in his place against the haystack, delirious, and evidently ill, was conveyed to the workhouse.

The next day “the Golden Shoemaker” received word that a man who was dying in the workhouse begged to see him at once. “Cobbler” Horn ordered his closed carriage, and drove to the workhouse without delay. The man, who was Jake, the tramp, had not long to live. His delirium was over now, and he was quite himself. His eyes were fixed eagerly upon the face of “Cobbler” Horn, as the latter entered the room.

“Are you ‘the Golden Shoemaker’?” he asked.

“So I am sometimes called,” replied “Cobbler” Horn, with a smile.

“Well—I ain’t got much time—I’m the bloke wot stole your little ’un; me and the old woman.”

“Cobbler” Horn uttered an exclamation of surprise.

“Yes. The old woman’s gone. She died in quod. I don’t know what they had done to her. Perhaps nothink: maybe her time was come. I warn’t that sorry; she’d got to be a stroke too many for me. But I want to tell you about the little ’un. I’m a going to die, and it ’ull be as well to get it off my mind. There ain’t no mistake; cos I see’d it in the paper, and it tallies. I’ve got it here.”

As he spoke, he drew from beneath his pillow the crumpled piece of newspaper on which he had read of the restoration of Marian to her father.

“There,” he said, “yer can read it for yerself.”

“Cobbler” Horn took the paper, and glanced at its contents. He had seen in various newspapers, if not this, several similar accounts of the adventures of his child.

“Ah,” he said, handing back to the man the greasy and crumpled paper, “tell me about it.”

“Well, you knows that field where you found one of her shoes?”

“Yes.”

“Well, we wos a sitting under the hedge, near that field, one morning, a-dining, when the kid came along. She stopped when she see’d us; and we invited her to go along with us, and somehow she seemed as if she didn’t like to refuse. Arter that,we took her into the wood; and the old woman stripped off her clothes, and did her up like as she was when she was found. She’d lost one of her shoes, and I went back for it; but I couldn’t find it nowheres. You may be sure as we got out o’ these parts as fast as we could. We thought as the kid ’ud be a rare help in the cadging line. But she was that stubborn and noisy, we soon got sorry as we’d ever taken on with her; and, if she hadn’t took herself right away, one arternoon when we was having of our arter-dinner nap in a dry ditch, I do believe as the old woman ’ud ha’ found some means o’ putting her on one side.”

Having finished his story, the dying tramp lay still for awhile, with his eyes closed.

“Cobbler” Horn looked down with pity upon the seamed and wrinkled face, from which almost all expression, except that of utter weariness, seemed to have been worn away.

Presently the dying man opened his eyes.

“That’s all as I has to tell, master,” he said faintly. “Do yer think, now, as yer could find it in yer heart to forgive a cove, like? It ’ud be none the worse for me, if yer could; nor, mayhap, for yourself neither. I’se sorry I done it.”

“Cobbler” Horn was deeply moved. But, as he now knew as much of what had happened to Marian as was likely ever to come to light, he could afford to let the matter rest; and already he found himself thinking more of the miserable case of the dying waif before him, than of the confession the poorcreature had made. So he gave himself fully to the congenial task of trying to bring this miserable being, into a fitting frame of mind in which to meet the solemn change which he must so soon undergo.

“I forgive you freely,” he said. “But won’t you ask pardon of God? My forgiveness will be of little use without His.”

The dying tramp looked up with a listless stare.

“It’s wery good o’ yer,” he said, “to say as yer forgives me. But, as for God, I’ve never had much to do with Him, yer see; and it ain’t likely as He’ll mind me now. And I don’t seem to care about it a deal.”

“Cobbler” Horn was troubled, but not surprised. Breathing a prayer for Divine guidance and help, he set himself to make clear to this dark soul the way of life. In the simplest words at his command, he strove to make the wretched man understand and feel his need of a Saviour; and, when, at length, he quitted the chamber of death, he had good reason to hope that his efforts had not been altogether in vain.

Marian was profoundly interested to hear of the dying tramp and the story he had told, which latter agreed so well with her own vague remembrances, that she joined her father and aunt in regarding it as indicating what had been the actual course of events.

Little, now, remains to be told. Father and daughter united to render the vast wealth which God had intrusted to their charge a source of greaterand yet greater blessing to increasing multitudes of needy and suffering people; and Aunt Jemima insisted on participating in all their generous schemes.

Marian is still secretary; but, as she receives many offers of marriage, it is possible the post may become vacant even yet.

FLETCHER AND SON, LTD., PRINTERS, NORWICH.

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