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.”