MISS JEMIMA IS VERY MUCH ASTONISHED.

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

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

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

“Yes, in a general way.”

“And what is the amount?”

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

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

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

“Some in England, and some in America.”

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

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

“A whole village!”

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

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

“Well?” queried Miss Jemima.

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

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

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

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

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

“And you will go to live there?”

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

“But——”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are they really for me?” he asked.

“Small doubt of that,” said Miss Jemima.

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

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

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

“It’s been in the papers, no doubt.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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