THE OPENING OF THE “HOME.”
At length the day arrived for the opening of the “Home.” It was early in June, and the weather was superb. All the inhabitants of Daisy Lane, whether tenants of “Cobbler” Horn or not, were invited to the opening ceremony, and to the festivities which were to occupy the remainder of the day. There was to be first a brief religious service in front of the Hall, after which Miss Jemima was to unlock the great front door with a golden key. Then would follow a royal feast in a marquee on the lawn; and, during the afternoon and evening, the house and grounds would be open to all.
The religious service was to be conducted by Mr. Durnford. The parish clergyman had been invited to take part, but had declined. Many of his brother-clergymen would have hailed with joy such an opportunity of fulfilling the spirit of their religion; but the Vicar of Daisy Lane regarded the matter in a different light.
In due course “Cobbler” Horn, Miss Jemima, the young secretary, Tommy Dudgeon—to whom had been given a very pressing invitation to join the party,—and Mr. Durnford, alighted from the train at the station which served for Daisy Lane, and were met by Mr. Gray.
“Well, Mr. Gray,” said “the Golden Shoemaker,” who was in a buoyant, and almost boisterous mood, “How are things looking?”
“Everything promises well, sir,” replied the agent, who was beaming with pleasure. “The arrangements are all complete; and everybody will be there—that is, with the exception of the vicar. Save his refusal to be present, there has not, thus far, been a single hitch.”
“I wish,” said “Cobbler” Horn, “that we could have got the poor man to come—for his own sake, I mean.”
“Yes, sir; he will do himself no good. It’s well they’re not all like that.”
Mr. Gray had brought his own dog-cart for the gentlemen; and he had provided for the ladies a comfortable basket-carriage, of which his son, a lad of fifteen, had charge. The dog-cart was a very different equipage from the miserable turn-out with which the agent had met his employer on the occasion of his first visit. Everything was of the best—the highly-finished trap, the shining harness, the dashing horse; and “Cobbler” Horn was thankful to mark the honest pride with which the agent handled the reins.
A few minutes brought them to Daisy Lane. Here indeed was a change! An unstinted expenditure of money, the toil of innumerable workmen, and the tireless energy and ever-ready tact of Mr. Gray, had converted the place into a model village. Instead of dropsical and rotting hovels, neat and smiling cottages were seen on every side. The vicarage, and the one farm-house not included in the property of “Cobbler” Horn, which had, aforetime, by their respectability and good repair, aggravated the untidiness and dilapidation of the rest of the village, were now rendered almost shabby by the fresh beauty of the renovated property of “the Golden Shoemaker.”
On every hand there were signs of rejoicing. It was evidently a gala day at Daisy Lane. Over almost every garden gate there was an arch of flowers. Streamers and garlands were displayed at every convenient point. Such a quantity of bunting had never before fluttered in the breezes of Daisy Lane.
As they approached the farm-house which “Cobbler” Horn had inspected on the occasion of his first visit, their progress was stayed by the farmer himself, who was waiting for them at his gate, radiant and jovial, a farmer, as it seemed, without a grievance! He advanced into the road with uplifted hand, and Mr. Gray and his son reined in their horses. The farmer approached the side of the dog-cart.
“Let me have a shake of your fist, sir,” he said, seizing the hand of “the Golden Shoemaker.” “You’re a model landlord. No offence; but it’s hard to believethat you’re anyways related to that ’ere old skin-flint as was owner here afore you.”
The farmer wore on his breast a huge red rosette, almost as big as a pickling cabbage, as though the occasion had been that of an election day, or a royal wedding, or some other celebration equally august.
“I’m glad you’re satisfied with what Mr. Gray has done, Mr. Carter,” said “Cobbler” Horn.
“Satisfied! That ain’t the word! And, as for Gray—well, he’s a decent body enough. But it’s little as he could ha’ done, if you hadn’t spoke the word.”
Then they drove on, and the farmer followed in their wake, occupying, with the roll of his legs, and the flourish of his big stick, as much of the road as the carriages themselves.
As they proceeded, they passed several groups of villagers, in gala dress, who were making their way towards the gates of the Hall grounds.
“These are the laggards,” explained the agent, “the bulk of the people are already on the ground.”
“Cobbler” Horn was recognised by the people, most of whom knew him well by sight; and, while the men touched their hats, and the boys made their bows, the women curtseyed, and each girl gave a funny little bob. Of all the novel sensations which his wealth had brought to “the Golden Shoemaker,” this was the most distinctly and entirely new. It had not seemed to him more strange, though it had been less agreeable, to be the object of Bounder’sobsequious attentions, than it did now to receive the worship of these simple villagers.
In due course they reached the Hall gates, and entered the grounds. A large marquee, with its fluttering flags, had been erected on one side of the lawn, which was almost like a small field. The people were dispersed about the grass in gaily-coloured groups, though few of them had wandered very far from the gates. When the carriages were seen approaching, the various parties gathered more closely together; and the people arranged themselves in lines on either side of the drive. The horses were immediately brought to a walking pace; and then, a jolly young farmer leading off, the villagers rent the air with their shouts of welcome. It was the spontaneous tribute of these simple people to the man, whose coming had restored long unaccustomed comfort to their lives, and awakened new hope in their despondent breasts.
“The Golden Shoemaker” raised his hat and waved his hand; and, inasmuch as the acclamations of the people were evidently intended for the ladies also, the young secretary nodded around with beaming smiles, and even Miss Jemima perceptibly bent her rigid neck.
At length the joyous procession arrived in front of the Hall steps. Here Mr. and Mrs. Burton were waiting to receive them. In response to their smiling welcome, “Cobbler” Horn shook these good people heartily by the hand, and, having introduced them to Miss Jemima, turned aside fora moment, that they might greet their adopted daughter.
In a few moments, he turned to them again, and enquired if everything was to their mind.
“Everything, sir,” said Mr. Burton. “The arrangements are perfect.”
“And our little family are all here,” added Mrs. Burton, pointing, with motherly pride, to a row of clean and radiant boys and girls, who were ranged at the top of the steps.
“Cobbler” Horn’s face was illumined with a ray of pleasure, as he looked up, at Mrs. Burton’s words; and yet there was a pensive shade upon his brow. Miss Jemima scrutinised the little regiment, and actually uttered a grunt of satisfaction. Miss Owen glanced from the happy child-faces to that of “Cobbler” Horn with eyes of reverent love. The children were not uniformly dressed; and they might very well have passed for the actual offspring of the kindly man and woman whom they were to know as “father” and “mother” from henceforth.
“Is everything ready, Mr. Gray?” asked “Cobbler” Horn.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then let us begin.”
At a signal from Mr. Gray, the people drew more closely up to the foot of the steps; and it was noticeable that Tommy Dudgeon had withdrawn to a modest position amongst the crowd. A hymn was then announced by Mr. Durnford, and sung from printed papers which had been distributed amongstthe people. Then, while every head was bowed, the minister offered a brief, but fervent and appropriate prayer. Next came an address from “Cobbler” Horn, in which, after explaining the purpose to which the Hall was to be devoted, he took the opportunity of assuring those of his tenants who were present that he would, as their landlord, do his utmost to promote their welfare. His hearty words were received with great applause, which was redoubled when he led Miss Jemima to the front. The minister then stepped forward, and presented Miss Jemima with a golden key, with which she deftly unlocked the great door, and, having pushed it open, turned to the people, and bowing gravely in response to their cheers, made, for the first and last time in her life, a public speech. She had much pleasure, she said, in declaring the old Hall open for the reception of friendless children, many of whom, she trusted, would find a happy home within its walls, and be there trained for a useful life. Here Miss Jemima stopped abruptly, and looked straight before her, with a very stern face, as though angry with herself for what she had done. And then, under cover of the renewed cheers of the people, she withdrew into the background.
The simple ceremony being over, the people were invited to enter the building and pass through the rooms. This invitation was freely accepted; and soon the various apartments of the renovated Hall were filled with people, who did not hesitate to express their admiration of what they saw.
When all the visitors had passed through the rooms, and admired to their hearts’ content, the ringing of a large hand-bell on the lawn announced that dinner was ready. At the four long tables which ran the whole length of the marquee there was room for all, and very soon every seat was occupied. The grace was announced by Mr. Durnford, and sung by the people, with a heartiness which might have been expected of hungry villagers, who had been summoned to an unaccustomed and sumptuous feast. Then the carvers got to work, and, as the waiters carried round the laden plates, comparative quiet reigned; but, when the plates began to reach the guests, the clatter of crockery, the rattle of knives and forks, and the babel of voices, made such a festive hubbub as was grateful to the ear.
After dinner, there was speech-making and merriment; and then the people left the tent, and dispersed about the grounds. While the former part of this process was in progress, Miss Owen heard a fragment of conversation which caused her to tingle to her finger-tips. She had just moved towards one of the tables for the purpose of helping an old woman to rise from her seat, and her presence was not perceived by the speakers, whose faces were turned the other way. They were two village gossips, a middle-aged woman and a younger one.
“Is she his daughter?” were the words that fell upon the young secretary’s ears, spoken by the elder woman in a stage whisper.
“No,” replied the other, in a similar tone. “Henever had but one child—her as was lost. This one’s the secretary, or some such.”
“Well, I do say as she’d pass for his own daughter anywhere.”
Miss Owen was not nervous; but her heart beat tumultuously at the thoughts which this whispered colloquy suggested to her mind. She placed her hand upon the table to steady herself, as the two women, all unconscious of the effect of their gossiping words, moved slowly away.
“The Golden Shoemaker” and his friends arrived at Cottonborough late that night. A carriage was waiting for them at the station; and, having said “good night” to Mr. Durnford and Tommy Dudgeon, they were soon driven home. They were a quiet—almost silent—party. The events of the day had supplied them with much food for thought. The image of his little lost Marian presented itself vividly to the mind of “Cobbler” Horn to-night. Miss Jemima’s thoughts dwelt on what was her one tender memory—that of the tiny, dark-eyed damsel who had so mysteriously vanished from the sphere of her authority so long ago.
And Miss Owen? Well, when she had at last reached her room, her first act was to lock the door. Then she knelt before her small hair-covered travelling trunk, and, having unlocked it, she slowly raised the lid and placed it back against the wall. For a moment she hesitated, and then, plunging her arm down at one corner of the trunk, amongst its various contents, she brought up, from the hidden depths, a small tissuepaper parcel. This she opened carefully, and disclosed a tiny shoe, homely but neat, a little child’s chemise, and an old, faded, pink print sun-bonnet, minus a string. In the upper leather of the shoe were several cuts, the work of some wanton hand. Sitting back upon her heels, she let the open parcel fall into her lap.
“What would I not give,” she sighed, “to find the fellow of this little shoe! But no doubt it has long ago rotted at the bottom of some muddy ditch!”
Then, for the hundredth time, she examined the little chemise, at one corner of which were worked, in red cotton, the letters “M.H.”
“They have told me again and again that I had this chemise on when I was found. Of course that doesn’t prove that it was my own, and I have never supposed that those two letters stand for my name. But now—well, may it not be so, after all? It was really no more than a guess, on the part of Mr. and Mrs. Burton, that my name was Mary Ann Owen; and, from what I can see, it’s just as likely to have been anything else. Let me think; what name might ‘M.H.’ stand for? Mary Hall? Margaret Harper? Mari——. No, no, I dare not think that—at least, not yet!”
Once more she wrapped up her little parcel of relics, and returned it to its place at the bottom of her trunk.
“Heigho!” she exclaimed, as, having closed and locked the trunk, she sprang to her feet. “How I do wonder who I am!”
Tiny Shoe“A tiny shoe.”—Page 264.
TOMMY DUDGEON UNDERTAKES A DELICATE ENTERPRISE.
The time which had elapsed since the first visit of Miss Owen to the house of “the little Twin Brethren” had constituted, for Tommy Dudgeon, a period of mental unrest. If he had been perturbed before, he was twice as uneasy now. He had made the joyous discovery which he had been expecting to make almost ever since he had seen the young secretary walking in her emphatic way along the street. But, joyous as the discovery was, the making of it had actually increased the perturbation of his mind. His trouble was that he could not tell how he would ever be able to make his discovery known. He did not doubt that, to his dear friend, “Cobbler” Horn, and to the young secretary, the communication of it would impart great joy. But he was restrained by a fear, which would arise, notwithstanding his feelingof certainty, lest he should prove to be mistaken after all; and his fear was reinforced by an inward persuasion which he had that he was the most awkward person in the world by whom so delicate a communication could be made.
Yet he told himself he was quite sure that the young secretary was no other than little Marian come back. His doubts had vanished when he had seen her sitting in the old arm-chair, just as when she was a child; and every time he had seen her since that day his assurance had been made more sure. But, as long as he was compelled to keep his discovery to himself, it was almost the same as though he had not made it at all.
Tommy almost wished that some one else had made the great discovery, as well as himself. His thoughts had turned to his brother John; and he had resolved to put him to the test, which he had subsequently done with considerable tact. On the evening of the day following that of the first visit of Miss Owen to their house, the brothers had been sitting by the fire before going to bed.
“John,” Tommy had said, seizing his opportunity, “you saw the young lady who was here the other day?”
“Yes.”
“She’s the secretary, you know.”
“Yes,” said John again, yawning; for he was sleepy.
“Well, what did you think of her?”
John started, and regarded his brother with a stareof astonishment. It was the first time Tommy had ever asked his opinion on such a subject. Was he thinking of getting married, or what? John Dudgeon had a certain broad sense of humour which enabled him to perceive such ludicrous elements of a situation as showed themselves on the surface.
“Ah!” he exclaimed slyly; “are you there?”
Tommy put out his hands in some confusion.
“No, no,” he said, “not what you think! But did you notice anything particular about the young lady?”
“Well no,” replied John, “except that I thought she was a very nice young person. But, Tommy, isn’t she rather too young? If you really are thinking of getting married, wouldn’t it be better to choose some one a little nearer your own age?”
John would not be dissuaded from the idea that his brother was intent on matrimonial thoughts. Tommy waved his hand, in a deprecatory way, and rising from his chair, said “good night,” and betook himself to bed.
It was plain that he was quite alone in his discovery. What was he to do? To speak to Miss Owen on the subject was out of the question. The only alternative was to communicate the good news to “Cobbler” Horn himself. But there seemed to be stupendous difficulties involved in such a course. He was aware that there was nothing his friend would more rejoice to know than that which he had to tell. From various hints thrown out by “Cobbler” Horn, Tommy knew that he regarded Miss Owen with muchof the fondness of a father; and it was not likely that the joy of finding his lost child would be diminished in the least by the fact that she had presented herself in the person of his secretary. But this consideration did not relieve the perplexity with which the little huckster contemplated the necessity of making known his secret to “Cobbler” Horn. For, to say nothing of the initial obstacle of his own timidity, he feared it would be almost impossible to convince his friend that his strange surmise was correct. If “Cobbler” Horn had not discovered for himself the identity of his secretary with his long-lost child, was it likely that he would accept that astounding fact on the testimony of any other person?
It is needless to say that Tommy Dudgeon made his perplexity a matter of prayer. He prayed and pondered, night and day; and, at length a thought came to him which seemed to point out the way of which he was in search. Might he not give “Cobbler” Horn some covert hint which would put him on the track of making the great discovery for himself? Surely some such thing, though difficult, might be done! He must indeed be cautious, and not by any means reveal his design. The suggestion must seem to be incidental and unpremeditated. There must be no actual mention of little Marian, and no apparently intentional indication of Miss Owen. Something must be said which might induce “Cobbler” Horn to associate the idea of his little lost Marian with that of his young secretary—to place them side by side before his mind. And it must all arise in thecourse of conversation, the order of which—he Tommy Dudgeon, must deliberately plan. The audacity of the thought made his hair stand up.
It was a delicate undertaking indeed! The little man felt like a surgeon about to perform a critical operation upon his dearest friend. He was preparing to open an old wound in the heart of his beloved benefactor. True, he hoped so to deal with it that it should never bleed again. But what if he failed? That would be dreadful! Yet the attempt must be made. So he set himself to his task. His opportunity came on the afternoon of the day following that of the opening of the “Home.” Watching from the corner of his window, as he was wont, about three o’clock, Tommy saw “the Golden Shoemaker” come along the street, and enter his old house. Then the little man turned away from the window, and became very nervous. For quite two minutes he stood back against the shelves, trying to compose himself. When he had succeeded, in some degree, in steadying his quivering nerves, he reached from under the counter a brown-paper parcel containing a pair of boots, which had, for some days, been lying in readiness for the occasion which had now arrived, and, calling John to mind the shop, slipped swiftly into the street. A minute later he was standing in the doorway of “Cobbler” Horn’s workshop. “The little Twin Brethren” had, at first, been disposed to refrain from availing themselves of the gratuitous labours of their friend; but, perceiving that it would afford him pleasure, they had yielded with an easy grace, andnow Tommy was glad to have so good an excuse for a visit to “the Golden Shoemaker,” as was supplied by the boots in the parcel under his arm.
“Cobbler” Horn perceived the nervousness of his visitor, and thinking it strange that the bringing of a pair of boots to be mended should have occasioned his humble little friend so much trepidation, he did his best, by adopting a specially sociable tone, to put him at his ease.
“Ah, Tommy, what have we there?” he asked. “More work for the ‘Cobbler,’ eh?”
“Just an old pair of boots which want mending, Mr. Horn,” said Tommy, in uncertain tones, as he unwrapped the boots and held them out with a shaking hand—“that is, if you are not too busy.”
“Not by any means,” said “Cobbler” Horn, with a smile. “Put them down.”
Tommy obeyed.
There stood against the wall, a much-worn wooden chair from which the back had been sawn off close.
“I’ll sit down, if you don’t mind,” gasped Tommy, depositing himself upon this superannuated seat.
“By all means,” said “Cobbler” Horn cordially; “make yourself quite at home.”
“Thank you,” said Tommy, drawing from his pocket a red and yellow handkerchief, with which he vigorously mopped his brow.
“Cobbler” Horn waited calmly for his perturbed visitor to become composed; and Tommy sat for some minutes, staring helplessly at “Cobbler” Horn, and still rubbing his forehead. What had become ofthe astute plan of operations which the little man had laid down?
“You have surely something on your mind, friend?” said “Cobbler” Horn, in an enquiring tone.
“Yes, I have,” said Tommy, somewhat relieved; “it’s been there for some time.”
“Well, what is it? Can I help you in any way?”
“Oh, no; I don’t want help.”
His utterly incapacitated demeanour belied him; but he was speaking of financial help.
“I’ve been thinking of the past, Mr. Horn,” he managed to say, making a faint effort to direct the conversation according to his original design.
“Ah!” sighed “Cobbler” Horn. “Of the past!” With the word, his thoughts darted back to that period of his own past towards which they so often sadly turned.
“I somehow can’t help it,” continued Tommy, gathering courage. “There seems to be something that keeps bringing it up.”
“Cobbler” Horn fixed his keen eyes on the agitated face of his visitor. He knew what it was in the past to which Tommy referred, and appreciated his delicacy of expression.
“Yes, Tommy,” he said, “and I, too, often think of the past. But is there anything special that brings it to your mind just now?”
Upon this, all Tommy Dudgeon’s clever plans vanished into air. His scheme for leading the conversation up to the desired point utterly broke down. He cast himself on the mercy of his friend.
“Oh,” he cried, in thrilling tones, “can’t you see it? Can’t you feel it—every day? The sec’tary! The sec’tary! If it is so plain to me, how can you be so blind?”
Then he darted from the room, and betook himself home with all speed.
BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH.
“Cobbler” Horn’s first thought was that the strain of eccentricity in his humble little friend had developed into actual insanity. But, on further consideration, he was disposed to take another view. He felt bound to admit that, though there had been a strangeness in the behaviour of the little man throughout his visit, it had not afforded any actual ground for the suspicion of insanity, until he had so suddenly rushed away home. It was, therefore, possible that there might prove to be some important meaning in what he had said. At first “Cobbler” Horn had gathered nothing intelligible from the impassioned apostrophe of his excited little friend; but, by degrees, there dawned upon him some faint gleam of what its meaning might be. “The sec’tary!” That was the quaint term by which Tommy was wont to designateMiss Owen. But their conversation had been drifting in the direction of his little lost Marian. Why, then, should Miss Owen have been in Tommy’s mind? Ah, he saw how it was! His humble friend had perceived that Miss Owen was a dear, good girl; and he had noticed her evident attachment to him—“Cobbler” Horn, and his fondness for her, and no doubt the little man had meant to suggest that she should take the place of the lost child. It was characteristic of his humble friend that he should seek, by such a hint, to point out a course which, no doubt, seemed to him, likely to afford satisfaction to all concerned; and “Cobbler” Horn could not help admiring the delicacy with which it had been done.
“The Golden Shoemaker” was quite persuaded that he had hit upon the right interpretation of the little huckster’s words; and he was not altogether displeased with the suggestion he supposed them to convey. Of course Marian would ultimately come back; and no one else could be permitted permanently to occupy her place. But there was no reason why he should not let his young secretary take, for the time being, as far as possible, the place which would have been filled by his lost child. In fact, Miss Owen was almost like a daughter to him already; and he was learning to love her as such. Well, he would adopt the suggestion of his little friend. His secretary should fill, for the time, the vacant place in his life. Yet he would never leave off loving his precious Marian; and her own share of love, which could never be given to another, must be reserved for heragainst her return, when he would have two daughters instead of one.
Thus mused “the Golden Shoemaker,” until, suddenly recollecting himself, he started up. He had promised to visit one of his former neighbours, who was sick, and it was already past the time at which the visit should have been made. He hastily threw off his leathern apron, and put on his coat and hat. At the same moment, he observed that heavy rain was beating against the window. It was now early summer; and, misled by the fair face of the sky, he had left home without an umbrella. What was he to do? He passed into the kitchen, and opening the front door, stood looking out upon the splashing rain. Behind him, in the room, sat, at her sewing, the good woman whom he had placed in charge of the house. She was small, and plump, and shining, the very picture of content. Her manner was respectful, and, as a rule, she did not address “Cobbler” Horn until he had spoken to her. To-day, however, she was the first to speak.
“Surely, sir, you won’t go out in such a rain!”
As she spoke, the shower seemed suddenly to gather force, and the rain to descend in greater volume than ever.
“Thank you, Mrs. Bunn,” replied “Cobbler” Horn, looking round. “I think I will wait for a moment or two; but I have no time to spare, and must go soon, in any case.”
The rain had turned the street into a river, upon the surface of which the plumply-falling drops wereproducing multitudes of those peculiar gleaming white splashes which are known to childhood as “sixpences and half-crowns.” All at once the downpour diminished. The sky became lighter, and the sun showed a cleared face through the thinning clouds.
“I think I may venture now,” said “Cobbler” Horn.
“Better wait a little longer, sir; it ’ull come on again,” said Mrs. Bunn, with the air of a person to whom the foibles of the weather were fully known. But “Cobbler” Horn was already in the street, and had not heard her words. It was some distance to the house of his sick friend, and he walked along at a rapid pace. But before he had proceeded far, the prophecy of Mrs. Bunn was fulfilled. In a moment, the sky grew black again; and, after a preliminary dash of heavy drops, the rain came down in greater abundance than before. It almost seemed as though a water-spout had burst. In two minutes, “the Golden Shoemaker” was wet to the skin. He might have returned to the house, from which he was distant no more than a few hundred yards; but he thought that, as he was already wet through, he might as well go on. Besides, “Cobbler” Horn’s promise was sacred, and it had been given to his sick friend. So he plunged on through the flooded and splashing streets.
When he reached his destination, he was glad that he had not turned back. His poor friend was much worse, and it was evident that he had not manyhours to live. Forgetful of his own discomfort, and heedless of danger from his wet clothes, “Cobbler” Horn took his place at the bedside, and remained for many hours with the dying man. His friend was a Christian, and did not fear to die. He had never been married, was almost without relatives, and had scarcely a friend. As, hour after hour, he held the hand of the dying man, “Cobbler” Horn whispered in his ear, from time to time, a cheering word, or breathed a fervent prayer. The feeble utterances of the dying man, which became less frequent as the hours crept away, left no doubt as to the reality of his faith in God, and, about midnight, he passed peacefully away.
“Cobbler” Horn lingered a few moments’ longer, and set out for home. The rain had long ceased, and the sky was without a cloud. The semi-tropical shower had been followed by a rapid cooling of the atmosphere, and he shivered in his still damp clothes, as he hurried along.
He found Miss Jemima and the young secretary anxiously awaiting his return. They knew of his intention of visiting his sick friend, and were not much surprised that he was so late. But his sister was greatly concerned to find that he had remained so long with his clothes damp. He went at once to bed, and Miss Jemima insisted upon bringing to him there a steaming basin of gruel. He took a few spoonfuls, and then lay wearily back upon the bed. Miss Jemima shook up his pillows, arranged the bed-clothes, and reluctantly left him for the night.
In the morning it was evident that “the Golden Shoemaker” was ill. The wetting he had received, followed by the effect of the chill night air, had found out an unsuspected weakness in his constitution, and symptoms of acute bronchitis had set in. The doctor was hastily summoned, and, after the manner of his kind, gravely shook his head, by way of intimating that the case was much more serious than he was prepared verbally to admit. The condition of the patient, indeed, was such as to justify the most alarming interpretation of the doctor’s manner and words.
Now followed a time of painful suspense. In spite of all that money could do, “Cobbler” Horn grew worse daily. The visits of the doctor, though repeated twice, and even three times a day, produced but little appreciable result. Could it be that this man, into whose possession such vast wealth had so recently come, was so early to be called to relinquish it again? Was it possible that all this money was so soon to drop from the hands which had seemed more fit to hold it than almost any other hands to which had ever been entrusted the disposal of money?
Miss Jemima did not ask herself such questions as these. She moved about the house, trying, in her grim way, to crush down within her heart the anguished thought that her beloved and worshipped brother lay at the point of death.
And Miss Owen—with what emotions did she contemplate the possibility of that dread event theactual occurrence of which became more probable every day? She went about her duties like one in a dream. What would it mean to her if he were to die? She would lose a great benefactor, and a dear friend; and that would be grief enough. But was there not something more that she would lose—something which had seemed almost within her grasp, which it had hitherto been the hope, and yet the fear, of her life that she might find, but which, of late, she had desired to find with an ardent and unhalting hope? It was with a sick heart that the young secretary discharged, from day to day, her now familiar duties. She was now so well acquainted with the mind of her employer, that she could deal with the correspondence almost as well without, as with, his help. But she missed him every moment, and the thought that he might never again take his place over against her at the office table filled her with bitter grief.
There were others who were anxious on account of the peril which threatened the life of “the Golden Shoemaker.”
Mr. Durnford was weighted with grave concern. He called every day to see his friend; and each time he left the sick-chamber, he was uncertain whether his predominant feeling was that of sorrow for the illness and danger of so good a man, or rejoicing that, in his pain and peril, “Cobbler” Horn was so patient and resigned.
In the breasts of many who were accustomed to receive benefits at the hands of “the GoldenShoemaker,” there was great distress. Every day, and almost every hour, there were callers, chiefly of the humbler classes, with anxious enquiries on their lips. Not the least solicitous of these were “the Little Twin Brethren.” Tommy Dudgeon almost continually haunted the house where his honoured friend lay in such dire straits. The anxiety of the little man was intensified by a burning desire to know whether his desperate appeal on the subject of the “sec’tary” had produced its designed effect on the mind of “Cobbler” Horn.
Public sympathy with “Cobbler” Horn and his anxious friends ran deep; and every one who could claim, in any degree, the privilege of a friend, made frequent enquiry as to the sufferer’s state. But neither public sympathy nor private grief were of much avail; and it seemed, for a time, as though the earthly course of “the Golden Shoemaker” was almost run. There came a day when the doctors confessed that they could do no more. A few hours must decide the question of life or death. Dreadful was the suspense in the stricken house, and great the sorrow in many hearts outside. Mr. Durnford, who had been summoned early in the morning, remained to await the issue of the day. Little Tommy Dudgeon, who had been informed that the crisis was near, came, and lingered about the house, on one pretence or another, unable to tear himself away.
But how was it with “the Golden Shoemaker” himself? From the first, he had been calm and patient; and, even now, when he was confrontedwith the grim visage of death, he did not flinch. Long accustomed to leave the issues of his life to God, willing to live yet prepared to die, he realized his position without dismay. No doctor ever had a more tractable patient than was “Cobbler” Horn; and he yielded himself to his nurses like an infant of days. In the earlier stages of his illness, he had thought much about the mysterious words and strange behaviour of his friend Tommy Dudgeon, on the day on which he had been taken ill. Further consideration had not absolutely confirmed “Cobbler” Horn’s first impression as to the meaning of the little huckster’s words. Pondering them as he lay in bed, he had become less sure that his humble little friend had intended simply to suggest the admirable fitness of the young secretary to take the place of his lost child. Surely, he had thought, the impassioned exclamation of the eccentric little man must have borne some deeper significance than that! And then he had become utterly bewildered as to what meaning the singular words of Tommy Dudgeon had been intended to convey. And then there came a glimmering—nothing more—of the idea his faithful friend had wished to impart. But, just when he might have penetrated the mystery, if he could have thought it out a little more, he became too ill to think at all.
After this his mind wandered slightly, and once or twice a strange fancy beset him that his little Marian was in the room, and that she was putting her soft hands on his forehead; but, in a moment, the fancywas gone, and he was aware that the young secretary was laying her cool gentle palm upon his burning brow.
It had been a wonderful comfort to the girl that she had been permitted to take a spell of nursing now and then.
A LITTLE SHOE.
That which happens now and then occurred in the case of “Cobbler” Horn. The doctors proved to be mistaken; and thanks to a strong and unimpaired constitution, and to the blessing of God on efficient nursing and medical skill, “the Golden Shoemaker” survived the crisis of his illness, and commenced a steady return to health and strength.
Great was the joy on every side. But, perhaps, the person who rejoiced most was Miss Owen. Not even the satisfaction of Miss Jemima at the ultimate announcement of the doctors, that their patient might now do well, was greater than was that of the young secretary. Miss Owen rejoiced for very special reasons of her own. During the convalescence of “Cobbler” Horn, the young secretary was with him very much. He was glad to have her in hisroom; and, as his strength returned, he talked to her often about herself. He seemed anxious to know all she could tell him of her early life.
“Sit down here, by the bed,” he would say eagerly, taking her plump, brown wrist in his wasted fingers, “and tell me about yourself.”
She would obey him, laughing gently, less at the nature of the request, than at the eagerness with which it was made.
“Now begin,” he said one evening, for the twentieth time, settling himself beneath the bed-clothes to listen, as though he had never heard the story before; “and mind you don’t leave anything out.”
“Well,” she commenced, “I was a little wandering mite, with hardly any clothes and only one shoe. I was——”
His hand was on her arm in an instant. This was the first time she had mentioned the fact that, when she was found by the friends by whom she had been brought up, one of her feet was without a shoe.
“Only one shoe, did you say?” asked “Cobbler” Horn, in tremulous tones.
“Yes,” she replied, not suspecting the tumult of thoughts her simple statement had excited in his mind.
In truth, her statement had agitated her listener in no slight degree. He did not, as yet, fully perceive its significance. But the coincidence was so very strange! One shoe! Only one shoe! His little Marian had lost one of her shoes when she strayed away. A wonderful coincidence, indeed!
“I was very dirty, and my clothes were torn,” resumed Miss Owen; “and I was altogether a very forlorn little thing, I have no doubt. I don’t remember much about it, myself, you know; but Mrs. Burton has often told me that I was crying at the time, and appeared to have been so engaged for some time. It was one evening in June, and getting dusk. Mr. and Mrs. Burton had been for a walk in the country, and were returning home, when they came upon me, walking very slowly, poking my fists into my eyes, and crying, as I said. When they asked me what was the matter, I couldn’t tell them much. I seemed to be trying to say something about a ‘bad woman,’ and my ‘daddy.’ They couldn’t even make out, with certainty, what I said my name was. Little as you might think it, Mr. Horn. I was a very bad talker in those days. ‘Mary Ann Owen’ was what my kind friends thought I called myself; and ‘Mary Ann Owen’ I have been ever since.
“Well, these dear people took me home; and, after they had washed me, and found some clothes for me which had belonged to a little girl they had lost—their only child—they gave me a good basin of bread and milk, and put me to bed.
“The next day they tried to get me to tell them something more, but it was no use; and as I couldn’t tell them where I lived, and they didn’t even feel sure about my name, they naturally felt themselves at a loss. But I don’t think they were much troubled about that; for I believe they were quite prepared to keep me as their own child. You see they had losta little one; and there was a vacant place that I expect they thought I might fill. They did, at first, try to find out who I was. But they altogether failed; and so, without more ado, they just made me their own little girl. They taught me to call them ‘father’ and ‘mother’; and they have always been so good and kind!”
Though several points in Miss Owen’s story had touched him keenly, “Cobbler” Horn quickly regained his composure after the first start of surprise. Feeling himself too weak to do battle with agitating thoughts, he put aside, for the time, the importunate questions which besieged his mind.
“Thank you,” he said quietly, when the narrative was finished. “To-morrow we will talk about it all again. I think I can go to sleep now. But will you first, please, read a little from the dear old book.”
The young girl reached a Bible which stood always on a table by the bedside, and, turning to one of his favourite places, read, in her sweet clear tones, words of comfort and strength. Then she bade him “good night,” and moved towards the door. But he called her back.
“Will you take these letters?” he said, with his hand on a bundle of letters which lay on the table at his side; “and put them into the safe.”
They were letters of importance, to which he had been giving, during the evening, such attention as he was able. During his illness, he had allowed his secretary to keep the key of the safe.
Miss Owen took the letters, and went downstairs.Going first into the dining-room, she told Miss Jemima that “Cobbler” Horn seemed likely to go to sleep, and then proceeded to the office. Without delay, she unlocked the safe, and was in the act of depositing the bundle of letters in its place, when, from a recess at the back, a small tissue-paper parcel, which she had never previously observed, fell down to the front, and became partially undone. As she picked it up, intending to restore it to the place from which it had fallen, her elbow struck the side of the safe, and the parcel was jerked out of her hand. In trying to save it, she retained in her grasp a corner of the paper, which unfolded itself, and there fell out upon the floor a little child’s shoe, around which was wrapped a strip of stained and faded pink print. At a sight so unexpected she uttered a cry. Then she picked up the little shoe, and, having released it from its bandage, turned it over and over in her hands. Next she gave her attention to the piece of print. She was utterly dazed. Suddenly the full meaning of her discovery flashed upon her mind. She dropped the simple articles by which she had been so deeply moved, and, covering her face with her hands, burst into a paroxysm of joyous tears. But her agitation was brief. Hastily drying her eyes, she picked up the little shoe. No need to wait till she had compared it with the one which lay in the corner of her box! The image of the latter was imprinted on her mind with the exactness of a photograph, with its every wrinkle and spot, and every slash it had received from that unknown, wantonhand. Shecouldcompare the two shoes here and now, as exactly as though she actually saw them side by side. Yes, this little shoe was indeed the fellow of her own! And the strip of print—what was it but her missing bonnet-string? She had found what she had so often longed to find. And she herself was—yes, why should she hesitate to say it?—the little Marian of whom she had so often heard!
How wonderful it was! Here was truth stranger than fiction, indeed! She laughed—a gentle, trilling laugh, low and sweet. But ah, she could not tell him! She could not say to him, “I am the daughter you lost so long ago. I have seen in your safe the fellow of the shoe I wore when I was found by my kind friends.” Of course it would convince him; but she could not say it. She must wait until he found out the truth for himself. But would he ever find it out? She hoped and thought he would. Had he not marked what she said about her having had on only one shoe when she was found? And would not that lead him to think and enquire? Meanwhile, she herself knew the wonderful truth; and she could afford to wait. It would all come right, of course it would; any other thought was too ridiculous to be entertained.
Very quietly, and with almost reverent fingers, she wound the faded bonnet-string once more around the little shoe, and wrapped them up again in the much-crumpled paper.
“How often must he have unfolded it!” was the thought that nestled in her heart, as she replaced theprecious parcel in the safe, and closed and locked the ponderous door.
From the office, the young secretary went directly to her own room. To open her trunk, and plunge her hand down into the corner where lay her own little parcel of relics, was the work of a moment. There was certainly no room for doubt. The little, stout, leather shoe which she had treasured so long was the fellow of the one she had just seen in the safe downstairs. There was the very same curve of the sole, made by the pressure of the little foot—her own, and similar inequalities in the upper part. With a sudden movement, she lifted the tiny shoe to her lips. And here was her funny old sun-bonnet! How often she had wondered what had become of its other string! Last of all, she took up the little chemise, which completed her simple store of relics, and gazed intently upon the red letters with which it was marked. All uncertainty as to their meaning was gone. What could “M.H.” stand for but “Marian Horn”? With a grateful heart, she rolled up her treasures, and, having consigned them once more to their place in the trunk, went downstairs. Miss Jemima was indisposed; and, having seen the nurse duly installed in the sick-room, she had retired for the night. Accordingly, Miss Owen, much to her relief, had supper by herself. She felt that she did not wish to talk to any one just at present, and to Miss Jemima least of all.
When the young secretary fell asleep that night, she was lulled with the sweetness of the thought thatshe had not only found her father, but had discovered him in the person of the best man she had ever known. The discovery of her father might have proved a bitter disappointment; it was actually such as to fill her with unspeakable gratitude. She did not greatly regret that she had not found her mother, as well as her father. It would probably have caused her real grief, if any one had appeared to claim the place in her heart which was held by the woman from whom she had always received, in a peculiar degree, a mother’s love and a mother’s care. One could find room for any number of fathers—provided they were worthy. But a mother!—her place was sacred; there could be no sharing of her throne.
A JOYOUS DISCOVERY.
It was long that night before “Cobbler” Horn fell asleep. He was free from pain, and felt better altogether than at any time since the beginning of his illness. Yet he could not sleep. The story of his young secretary, as she had told it this evening, had supplied him with thoughts calculated to banish slumber from the most drowsy eyes.
Miss Owen had told him her simple story many times before; but this evening she had introduced certain new particulars of a startling kind; and it was as the result of the thoughts thereby suggested that he was unable to sleep. The few additional details which the young secretary had included in her narrative this evening had given a new aspect to the story. There was the solitary shoe she had worn at the time when she had come into the kind hands of Mr. and Mrs. Burton, and the fact thatshe was a very indistinct talker at the time. The entire story, too, seemed to correspond so well—why should he not admit it?—with what might not improbably have been the history of his little Marian; and Marian would be, at that time, about the same age as was Miss Owen when she was found by the friends whose adopted child she became. But the solitary shoe! He wondered whether it was still in her possession. He would ask her in the morning. And then the indistinct talk of which she had spoken! How well he remembered the pretty broken speech of his own little pet! Then there returned to him that gleam of intelligence with regard to the meaning of the strange words of Tommy Dudgeon with which he had been visited at the beginning of his illness. Surely this was what his faithful friend had meant! From the great affection of the little huckster for Marian, it was likely that he would have a vivid recollection of the child; and no doubt the little man had already discerned what the father himself was only now, after so many hints, beginning to perceive. Thus he pondered through the night. Strange to say, he felt neither sleepy nor tired. He was refreshed by the gracious prophecy of coming joy which the story of his young secretary had supplied; and when, after falling asleep in the early hours of the morning, he awoke towards eight o’clock, he felt as though he had slept all night.
It was the custom for the young secretary to pay a visit to her employer’s room soon after breakfast, for the purpose of laying before him any of themorning’s letters to which it was imperative that his personal attention should be given. Most frequently Miss Owen’s visit was, as far as business was concerned, a mere formality, or little more. There were few of the letters with which she herself was not able to deal; and all that was necessary, as a rule, was for her to make a general report, which “Cobbler” Horn invariably received with an approving smile. Then the favoured young secretary would linger for a few moments in the room. She would hover about the bed; asking how he had passed the night; performing a variety of tender services, which, though he had not previously realized the need of them, increased his comfort to a wonderful extent; and talking, all the while, in her merry, heartsome way, like a privileged child, with now and then a gentle, cooing little laugh.
There was nothing, in the whole course of the day, that “the Golden Shoemaker” enjoyed so much as the morning visit of his fresh young secretary. But he had never before anticipated it as eagerly as he did this morning. He had long looked upon this young girl rather in the light of a devoted daughter, than of a paid secretary. What if, unconsciously to them both, she had thus grown into her rightful place! As the time approached for her appearance, he had insensibly brought himself to face more fully the wonderful possibility which had been presenting itself to his mind during the last few hours. The nurse was surprised that, though he seemed to be even better than usual, he could scarcely eat anybreakfast. All the time, he was watching the door, and listening for the slightest sound. He wondered whether Miss Owen still had in her possession the little shoe of which she had spoken. He must ask her that at once. And how he yearned to search her face, with one long, scrutinising gaze!
At last she came, radiant, as usual! Did he notice that a slight shyness veiled her face, and that there was an unusual tremor in her voice as she wished him “good morning”? If “Cobbler” Horn perceived these signs, he paid them but scant regard. He was too much absorbed in his own thoughts, to consider what those of his young secretary might be; and he was too busily engaged in scrutinising the permanent features of her face, to give much heed to its transient expression. What he saw did not greatly assist in the settlement of the question which occupied his mind. And small wonder that it should be so; for, when he had last seen his Marian, she was a little girl of five.
No less eagerly than “Cobbler” Horn scanned the countenance of his young secretary, did her eyes, that morning, seek his face. She too had passed a broken night. But it had not seemed wearisome or long. Happy thoughts had rendered sleep an impertinence at first; and, when healthy youthful nature had, at length, asserted itself, the young girl had slept only in pleasant snatches, waking every now and then from some delicious dream, to assure herself that the sweetest dream could not be half so delightful as the glad reality which had come into her life.
If these two people could have read each other’s thoughts—— But that might not be. She wished him “good morning,” in her own bright way; and he responded with his usual benignant smile. Then they proceeded to business. There was one very important letter, which demanded some expenditure of time. The secretary was not altogether herself. Her hand trembled a little, and there was a slight quaver in her voice. Her employer noticed these signs of discomposure, and spoke of them in his kindly way.
“Surely you are not well this morning!” he said, placing his hand lightly on her wrist.
His secretary was usually so self-possessed.
“Oh yes,” she said, with a start, “I am quite well—quite.”
She smiled at the very idea of her not being well, knowing what she did.
“Come and sit down beside me for a little while,” said “Cobbler” Horn, when their business was finished; “and let us have some talk.”
It was the ordinary invitation; but there was something unusual in the tone of his voice. As the young girl took her seat at the bedside, her previous agitation in some degree returned. “Cobbler” Horn’s fingers closed upon her hand, with a gentle pressure.
“My dear young lady, there is something that I wish to ask you.”
There was just the slightest tremor in his voice; and the young secretary was distinctly conscious of the beating of her heart.
“Yes, sir,” she said, faintly, trembling a little.
“Don’t be agitated,” he continued, for it was impossible to overlook the fact of her excitement. “It’s a very simple matter.”
He did not know—how could he?—that her thoughts were running in the same direction as his own.
“You said,” he pursued, “that, when you were found by your good friends, you were wearing only one shoe. Did you—have you that shoe still?”
It was evident that he was agitated now. Miss Owen started, and he could feel her hand quiver within his grasp, like a frightened bird.
“Yes,” she answered in a whisper, above which she felt powerless to raise her voice, “I have kept it ever since.”
“Then,” he resumed, having now quite recovered his self-possession, “would you mind letting me see it?”
With a strong effort, she succeeded in maintaining her self-control.
“Oh no, not at all, sir!” she said, rising, and moving towards the door; “I’ll fetch it at once. But it isn’t much to look at now,” she added over her shoulder, as she left the room.
“‘Not much to look at’!” laughed “the Golden Shoemaker” softly to himself. There was nothing that he had ever been half so anxious to see!
Five minutes later he was sitting up in bed, turning over and over in his hands the fellow of the little shoe which he had cherished for so many years as the dearest memento of his lost child. Could there be any doubt?Was it not his own handiwork? It had evidently received several random slashes with a knife, and it still bore traces of mud. But he knew his own work too well; and had he not looked upon the fellow of this shoe every day for the last twelve years?
Strange to say, so completely absorbed was “Cobbler” Horn in contemplating the shoe which his Marian had worn, that, for the moment, he did not think of Marian herself. At length he looked up. But he was alone. Discretion, and the tumult of her emotions, had constrained the young secretary to withdraw from the room. Putting a strong hand upon herself, she had retired to the office, where she was, at that moment, diligently at work.
“Cobbler” Horn sighed. But perhaps it was better that the young girl had withdrawn. There was little room for doubt; but he must make assurance doubly sure. He touched the electric bell at the head of the bed, and the nurse immediately appeared.
“Will you be so good as to tell Miss Horn I should like to see her at once.”
The nurse, marking the eagerness with which the request was uttered, and observing the little shoe on the counterpane, perceived that the occasion was urgent, and departed on her errand with all speed.
“I don’t think he is any worse this morning,” she said to Miss Jemima when she had delivered her message. “Indeed he seems, quite unaccountably, to be very much better. But it is evident something has happened.”
Without waiting to hear more, Miss Jemima hurriedto her brother’s room. Sitting up in bed, with a happy face, he was holding in his hand a dilapidated child’s shoe, which he placed in his sister’s hands as soon as she approached the bed.
“Jemima, look at that!” he said joyously.
Thinking it was the shoe which her brother had always preserved with so much care, she took it, and examined it with much concern.
“Whoever can have cut it about like that?” she cried.
“Cobbler” Horn hastened to rectify her mistake.
“No, Jemima,” he said, in a tone of reverent exultation; “it’s the other shoe—the one we’ve been wanting to find all these years!”
The first thought of Miss Jemima was that her brother had gone mad. Then she examined the shoe more closely.
“To be sure!” she said. “How foolish of me! Those cuts were made long ago.”
As she spoke, she put her hand on the table at the bedside, to steady herself.
“Brother,” she demanded, in trembling tones, “where did you get this shoe? Did it come by the morning post?”
“Cobbler” Horn answered deliberately. He would give his sister time to take in the meaning of his words.
“It has been in the possession of Miss Owen. She brought it to me just now.”
“Miss Owen?”
Miss Jemima’s first impulse was towards indignation.What had Miss Owen been doing with the shoe? But the next moment, she reflected that there must be some reasonable explanation of the fact that the shoe had been in the possession of her brother’s secretary—though what that explanation might be Miss Jemima could not, as yet, divine.
“She has had it,” resumed “Cobbler” Horn, in the same quiet tone as before, “ever since she was a little girl. She was wearing it when she was found by the good people by whom she was adopted.”
Then light came to Miss Jemima, clear and full. She grasped her brother’s shoulder, and remembered his weakness only just in time to refrain from giving him a vigorous shake.
“Brother, brother,” she cried, “do you understand what your words may mean?”
“Yes, Jemima—in part, at least. But we must make sure. First we will put the two shoes together, and see that they really are the same.”
“Why, surely, Thomas, you have no doubt?”
“There seems little room for it, indeed; but we cannot make too sure!”
He wanted to give himself time to become accustomed to the great joy which was dawning on his life.
“You know where the other shoe is, Jemima?”
“Yes, in the safe.”
“Yes; and you know that, while I have been up here, Miss Owen has kept the key of the safe?”
“Yes.”
Miss Jemima had undergone much mental chafing by reason of that knowledge.
“Well, will you go to her in the office, and say I wish you to bring me something out of the safe? She will not know what you bring. She will just hand you the key, and go on with her work.”
“Yes, I will go, brother. But are you sure she knows or suspects nothing? She may have seen the shoe.”
“Oh no; it is well wrapped up, and I am sure she would not touch the parcel. I can trust my secretary,” he added, with a new-born pride.
As Miss Jemima went down stairs, she wondered she had not long ago lighted on the discovery which her brother had now made. It explained many things. The tones and gestures which had so often startled her by their familiarity; the vague feeling that, at some time, she must have known this young girl before; the growing resemblance—evident to Miss Jemima’s eyes, at least—of the young secretary to “Cobbler” Horn—these things, which, with many kindred signs, Miss Jemima had hidden in her heart, had their explanation in the discovery which had just been made.
Miss Owen yielded the key of the safe without question. Though she appeared to take no notice of Miss Jemima’s doings, she knew, as by instinct, what Miss Jemima was taking out of the safe; and she told herself that she must not, and would not, let it appear that she supposed anything unusual was going on. She went on quietly with her work;but it was by dint of such an effort of self-control, as few human beings have ever found it necessary to make, or could have made.
As the result of the young secretary’s effort of self-repression, there appeared in her face, at the moment when Miss Jemima turned to leave the room, an expression so much like that assumed by the countenance of “Cobbler” Horn at times when he was very firm, that the heart of Miss Jemima gave a mighty bound.
Meanwhile Miss Jemima’s brother was eagerly awaiting her return. She had been absent less than five minutes, when she once more entered his room.
“There,” she said, holding the two little shoes out towards her brother, side by side, “there can be no doubt about the shoes, at any rate. They are a pair, sure enough. Why,” she continued, turning up the shoe that Miss Owen had produced, “I remember noticing, that very morning, that half the leather was torn away from the heel of one of the child’s shoes, just like that.”
As she spoke, she held out the shoe, and showed her brother that its heel had been damaged exactly as she had described. Then a strange thing happened to Miss Jemima. She dropped the little shoes upon the bed, and, covering her face with her hands, cried gently for a few moments. “The Golden Shoemaker” gazed at his sister in some wonder; and then two large tears gathered in his own eyes, and rolled down his cheeks.
All at once Miss Jemima almost fiercely dashed her hand across her eyes.
“Brother,” she cried, “I’ve often heard of tears of joy; but I didn’t think I should live to say they were the only ones I had shed since I was a little child! But there’s no mistake about those shoes. And there’s no doubt about anything else either.”
“Cobbler” Horn was, perhaps, quite as confident as his sister; but he was a little more cautious.
“Yes, Jemima,” he said; “but we must be careful. A mistake would be dreadful—both on our own account, and on that of—of Miss Owen. We must send for Mr. and Mrs. Burton at once. Mr. Durnford will telegraph. It will be necessary, of course, to tell him of our discovery; but he may be trusted not to breathe it to any one else.”
Miss Jemima readily assented to her brother’s proposal. Mr. Durnford was sent for, and came without delay. His astonishment on hearing the wonderful news his friends had to tell was hardly as great as they expected. It is possible that this arose from the fact that he was acquainted with the story of Miss Owen, and that his eyes and ears had been open during the last few months. It was, however, with no lack of heartiness that he complied with the request to send a telegram summoning Mr. and Mrs. Burton to “Cobbler” Horn’s bedside.