THE SHOEMAKER BECOMES “GOLDEN.”

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

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

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

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

“Thomas!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, to-morrow.”

“And you will go to London?”

“Yes, next week, I think.”

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

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

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

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