THE ATTACK ON THE CORRESPONDENCE.

When “Cobbler” Horn’s secretary awoke next morning, she experienced a return of the feeling of familiarity with her surroundings of which she had been conscious on first entering the house. The little white-washed bedroom, with its simple furniture, seemed like a vision of the past. She had a dreamy impression that she had slept in this little white room many times before. There was, in particular, a startling appearance of familiarity in a certain picture which hung upon the wall, beyond the foot of the bed. It was an old-fashioned coloured print, in a black frame, and represented Jacob’s dream. For a long time she gazed at the picture. Then she gave herself a shake, and sighed, and laughed a low, pathetic little laugh.

“What nonsense!” she thought. “As if I could ever have been here before, or set eyes on the picture! Though I may have seen one like it somewhere else, to be sure.”

Then she roused herself, and got out of bed. But when, having dressed, she went downstairs, the same sense of familiarity with her surroundings surged over her again. The boxed-up staircase seemed to her a not untrodden way; and when she emerged in the kitchen at its foot, and saw the round deal table spread for breakfast with its humble array, she almost staggered at the familiarity of the scene.

“Cobbler” Horn was in his workshop, and Miss Jemima had gone into the yard; and, as the young girl gazed around the humble room it seemed, in some strange fashion, to have belonged to her past life. The very tap-tap of “Cobbler” Horn’s hammer, coming cheerily from the workshop behind, awoke weird echoes in her brain, and helped to render her illusion complete.

All breakfast-time she felt like one in a dream. She seemed to be drifting into a new life, which was not new but old; and she almost felt as if she had come home. She was utterly unable to imagine what might be the explanation of this strange experience. She had not a glimmering of the actual truth. She struggled against the feeling which possessed her, and partly overcame it; but it returned again and again during her stay in the house, though with diminished force.

After breakfast, “Cobbler” Horn invited his secretary to attack the accumulated mass of letters which waited for despatch.

“You see, Miss Owen,” he said in half-apology for asking her to begin work so soon, “the pile gets larger every day; and, if we don’t do something to reduce it at once, it will get altogether beyond bounds.”

Miss Owen turned her sparkling dark eyes upon her employer.

“Oh, Mr. Horn,” she exclaimed, as she took her seat at the table, “the sooner we get to work the better! I did not come here to play, you know.”

“Cobbler” Horn poured an armful of unanswered letters down upon the table, in front of his ardent young secretary.

“There’s a snow-drift for you, Miss Owen!” he said.

“Thank you, sir,” was the cheery response, “we must do our best to clear it away.”

Miss Owen was already beginning to feel quite at home with “Cobbler” Horn; and she even ventured at this point, to rally him on the dismay with which he regarded his piles of letters.

“Don’t you think, sir,” she asked, with a radiant smile, “that a little sunshine might help us?”

“Cobbler” Horn started, and glanced towards the window. The morning was dull.

“Yes,” he said; “but we can’t command——” Then he perceived her meaning, and broke off with a smile. “To be sure; you are right, Miss Owen. It is wrong of me to be wearing such a gloomy face. But you see this kind of thing is all so new and strange to me; and you need not wonder that I am dismayed.”

“No,” replied the secretary, with just the faintest little touch of patronage in her tone; “it’s not surprising in your case. But I am not dismayed. Answering letters has always been my delight.”

“That’s well,” said “Cobbler” Horn, gravely; “And I think you will have to supply a large share of the ‘sunshine’ too, Miss Owen.”

“I’ll try,” she replied, simply, with a beaming smile; and she squared her shapely arms, and bent her dusky head, and set to work with a will, while “Cobbler” Horn, regarding her from the opposite side of the table, was divided between two mysteries, which were, how she could write so fast and well, and what it was which made him feel as if he had known her all his life?

Most of the letters contained applications for money. Some few were from the representatives of well-known philanthropic societies; many others were appeals on behalf of local charities or associations; and no small proportion were the applications of individuals, who either had great need, or were very cunning, or both.

The private appeals were of great variety. “Cobbler” Horn was amazed to find how many people were at the point of despair for want of just the help that he was able to give. It was past belief how large a number of persons he had the opportunity of saving from ruin, and with how small a sum of money, in each case, it might be done. What a manifold disclosure of human misery and despair those letters were, or seemed to be! Some of them, doubtless, had been written with breaking hearts, and punctuated with tears; but which?

“I had no idea there was so much trouble in the world!” cried “Cobbler” Horn, in dismay.

“Perhaps there is not quite so much as your letters seem to imply, sir,” suggested the secretary.

“You think not?” queried “Cobbler” Horn.

“I feel sure of it,” said the young girl, with a knowing shake of her head. “But we must do our best to discriminate. I should throw some of these letters into the fire at once, if I were you, Mr. Horn.”

“But they must be answered first!”

“Must they, sir? Every one?” enquired the secretary, arching her dark eye-brows. “Why it will cost you a small fortune in stamps, Mr. Horn!”

“But you forget how rich I am, Miss Owen. And I would rather be cheated a thousand times, than withhold, in a single instance, the help I ought to give.”

“Well, Mr. Horn, I’m your secretary, and must obey your commands, whether I approve of them or not.”

She spoke with a merry trill of laughter; and “Cobbler” Horn, far from being offended, shot back upon her a beaming smile.

They took the letters as they came. Concerning some of the applications, “Cobbler” Horn felt quite able to decide himself. Appeals from duly-accredited philanthropic institutions received from him a liberal response, and so large were some of the amounts that the young secretary felt constrained to remonstrate.

“You forget,” he replied, “how much money I’ve got.”

“But—excuse me, sir—you seem resolved to give it all away!”

“Yes, almost,” was the calm reply.

There was but little difficulty, moreover, in dealing with the applications on behalf of local interests. It was the private appeals which afforded most trouble. Every case had to be strenuously debated with Miss Owen, who maintained that not one of these importunate correspondents ought to be assisted, until “Cobbler” Horn had satisfied himself that the case was one of actual necessity, and real merit. By dint of great persistency, she succeeded in convincing her employer that many of these private appeals were not worthy of a moment’s consideration. To each of the writers of these a polite note of refusal was to be despatched. With regard to the rest, it was decided that an application for references should be made.

“I shall have to be your woman of business, Mr. Horn,” said Miss Owen, “as well as your secretary; and, between us, I think we can manage.”

She felt that there was a true Christian work for her in doing what she could to help this poor embarrassed Christian man of wealth.

“Cobbler” Horn was enraptured with his secretary. She seemed to be fitting herself into a vacant place in his life. It appeared the most natural thing in the world that she should be there writing his letters. If his little Marian had not gone from him years ago, she might have been his secretary now. He sighed at the thought; and then, as he looked across at the animated face of Miss Owen, as she bent over her work, and swept the table with her abundant tresses, he was comforted in no small degree.

Miss Jemima’s respect for the proprieties, rendered her reluctant to absent herself much from the room where her brother and his engaging young secretary sat together at their interesting work; and she manifested, from time to time, a lively interest in the progress of their task.