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 £50,000. 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.”