But how was it with "the Golden Shoemaker" himself? From the first, he had been calm and patient; and, even now, when he was confronted with 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 fancy was 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.



CHAPTER XXXVIII.

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 his room; 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 lost a 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, wanton hand. She could compare 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 the precious 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 that she 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.



CHAPTER XXXIX.

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 that she 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 the morning'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 any breakfast. 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 hurried to 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.



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 good lady 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 you would go 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 eager face 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."

"Surmise is 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. You can't be 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 have known 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."



CHAPTER XLI.

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 her clothes 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 to her; 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 lose so 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 like Marian Horn as Mary 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 like Mary 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, "that Mary Ann Owen was 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 very stubborn; 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 could regard 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."



CHAPTER XLII.

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 the room. 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. And then 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 L50,000. 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."



CHAPTER XLIII.

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's early 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 was eating, 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 life were 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 he feel 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 poor creature 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 greater and 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.

THE END