“COBBLER” HORN ANSWERS HIS LETTERS, AND RECEIVES THE CONGRATULATIONS OF HIS FRIENDS.

When, after a somewhat troubled night, “Cobbler” Horn came down next morning, his attention was arrested by the letters lying, as he had left them, on the table, the night before.

“Yes,” he said, in answer to his thoughts; “I think I’ll deal with them straight away.” So saying, he drew a chair to the table, and, having found a few sheets of time-stained note paper, together with a penny bottle of ink, and an old crippled pen, he sat down to his unwelcome task. The undertaking proved even more troublesome than he had thought it would be. The pen persisted in sputtering at almost every word; and when, at crucial points, he took special pains to make the writing legible, the too frequent result was an indecipherable blotch of ink. When the valiant scribe had wrestled with his uncongenial task for half an hour or more, his sister came upon the scene. Quietly she stepped across the floor.

“Ah!” she exclaimed, peeping over her brother’s shoulder, “so you are answering them already!”

“Cobbler” Horn started, and a huge blot fell from his pen into the midst of his half-finished letter.

“I’m afraid I shall not be able to send this, now,” he said, with a patient sigh.

“No,” said Miss Jemima, laconically, “I’m afraid not. You are writing to the ‘widow,’ I see; and you are promising her some help. That’s very well. But, in nine cases out of ten, what strangers say of themselves requires confirmation—especially if they are beggars; so don’t you think that, before sending money to this ‘widow,’ it would be as well to ask for the name of some reliable person who will vouch for the truth of her statements? You must not forget, what you often say, you know, that you are the steward of your Lord’s goods.”

This was an argument which was sure to prevail with “Cobbler” Horn.

“No doubt you are right, Jemima,” he said; “and, however reluctantly, I must take your advice.”

“That’s right,” said Miss Jemima.

“You haven’t answered the other letters?” she then asked, with a glance over the table.

“No.”

“Well, hadn’t you better put them away now, and get to your work? After breakfast you must get a new pen and a fresh bottle of ink. Then we’ll see what we can do together.”

In an emergency which demanded the exercise of the practical good sense, of which she had so large a share, Miss Jemima regained, to some extent, her old ascendency over her brother. He quietly gathered up his letters, and, placing them on the chimney-piece, retired to his workshop.

At breakfast-time Miss Jemima’s prognostication began to receive fulfilment in the arrival of the postman with another batch of letters. This time the number had increased to something like a dozen. Having received them from the hands of the postman, “Cobbler” Horn carried them towards his sister with a somewhat comical air of dismay.

“So many!” exclaimed she. “Your cares are accumulating fast. You will have to engage a secretary. Well, we’ll look at them by and bye.”

Scarcely was breakfast over than there came a modest knock at the door, which, on being opened by Miss Jemima, revealed the presence of the elder of the little twin hucksters, who still carried on business across the way.

Miss Jemima drew herself up like a sentry; and little Tommy Dudgeon, finding himself confronted by this formidable lady, would have beaten a hasty retreat. But it was too late.

“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” he began humbly; “I came to see your brother.”

“I don’t know,” was the lady’s lofty reply. “My brother has much business on hand.”

“No doubt, ma’am; but—but—”

At this point “Cobbler” Horn himself came to the door, and Miss Jemima retreated into the house.

“Good morning, Tommy,” said “Cobbler” Horn heartily, “step in.”

“Thank you, Mr. Horn,” was the modest reply, “I’m afraid I can’t. Business presses, you know. But I’ve just come to congratulate you if I may make so bold. Brother would have come too; but he’s minding the twins. It’s washing day, you see. He’ll pay his respects another time.”

John Dudgeon had been married for some years, and amongst the troubles which had varied for him the joys of that blissful state, there had recently come the crowning calamity of twins—an affliction which would seem to have run in the Dudgeon family.

“We are glad you have inherited this vast wealth, Mr. Horn,” said Tommy Dudgeon. “We think the arrangement excellent. The ways of Providence are indeed wonderful.”

“Cobbler” Horn made suitable acknowledgment of the congratulations of his humble little friend.

“There is only one thing we regret,” resumed the little man; “and that is that your change of fortune will remove you to another sphere.”

“Cobbler” Horn smiled.

“Well, well,” he said, “we shall see.”

Whereupon Tommy Dudgeon, feeling comforted, he scarcely knew why, said “Good morning” and ambled back to his shop.

About the middle of the morning “Cobbler” Horn and his sister sat down to deal with the letters. First they glanced at those which had arrived that morning, and then laid them aside for the time, until, in fact, they had dealt with those previously received. First came that of the assumed widow, to which Miss Jemima induced her brother to write a cautious reply, asking for a reference. To the man who asked for the loan of twenty pounds, Miss Jemima would have sent no reply at all; but “Cobbler” Horn insisted that a brief but courteous note should be sent to him, expressing regret that the desired loan could not be furnished. It did not need the persuasion of his sister to induce “Cobbler” Horn to decline all dealings with the importunate inventor; but it was with great difficulty that she could dissuade him from making substantial promises to the religious institutions from which he had received appeals.

“I think I shall consult the minister about such cases,” he said.

The investigation of the second batch of letters was postponed until the afternoon.

During the morning, and at intervals throughout the day, others of “Cobbler” Horn’s neighbours came to offer their congratulations, and were astonished to find him seated on his cobbler’s stool, and quietly plying his accustomed task. To their remonstrances he would reply, “You see this work is promised; and if I am rich, I must keep my word. And then the habits of a lifetime are not to be given up in a day. And, to be honest with you, friends, I am in no haste to make the change. I love my work, and would as lief be sitting on this stool as anywhere else in the world.”

There came some of his poorer customers, who greatly bewailed what they regarded as his inevitable removal from their midst. They could not congratulate him as heartily as they desired. They would rather he had remained the poor, kind-hearted, Christian cobbler whom they had always known. Many a pair of boots had he mended free of charge for customers who could ill afford to pay; not a few were the small debts of poor but honest debtors which he had forgiven; and not seldom had clandestine gifts of money or food found their way from his hands to one or another of these regretful congratulators. Perceiving the grief upon the faces of his friends, “Cobbler” Horn contrived, by means of various hints, to let them know that he would still be their friend, and to remind them that his enrichment would conduce to their more effectual help at his hands.

On one point all his visitors were agreed. Great wealth, they said, could not have come to any one by whom it was more thoroughly deserved, or who would put it to a better use. “The Lord,” affirmed one quaint individual, “knew what He was about this time, anyhow.”

In the afternoon, “Cobbler” Horn and his sister set about the task of answering the second batch of letters. They were all, with one exception, of a similar character to those of the first. The exception proved to be a badly-written, ill-spelled, but evidently sincere, homily on the dangers of wealth, and ended with a fierce warning of the dire consequences of disregarding its admonition. It was signed simply—“A friend.”

“You’ll burn that, I should think!” was Miss Jemima’s scornful comment on this ill-judged missive.

“No,” said “Cobbler” Horn, putting the letter into his breast pocket; “I shall keep it. It was well meant, and will do me good.”

By tea-time their task was finished; and “Cobbler” Horn heaved a sigh of relief as he rose from his seat. But just then the postman knocked at the door, and handed in another and still larger supply of letters, at the sight of which the “Golden Shoemaker” staggered back aghast. The fame of his fortune had indeed got wind.

“Ah,” exclaimed his sister, who was setting the tea-things, “you’ll have to engage a secretary, as I said.”