“COBBLER” HORN’S VILLAGE.

It was the custom of “Cobbler” Horn to spend the first hour of every morning, after breakfast, in the office, with his secretary. They would go through the letters which required attention; and, after he had given Miss Owen specific directions with regard to some of them, he would leave her to use her own discretion with reference to the rest. Amongst the former, there were frequently a few which he reserved for the judgment of Mr. Durnford. It was the duty of the young secretary to scan the letters which came by the later posts; but none of them were to be submitted to “Cobbler” Horn until the next morning, unless they were of urgent importance.

One morning, about a week after the removal to the new house, the office door suddenly opened, and “Cobbler” Horn emerged into the hall in a state of great excitement, holding an open letter in his hand.

“Jemima!” he shouted.

The only response was a sound of angry voices from the region of the kitchen, amidst which he recognised his sister’s familiar tones. Surely Jemima was not having trouble with the servants! Approaching the kitchen door, he pushed it slightly open, and peeped into the room. Miss Jemima was emphatically laying down the law to the young and comely cook, who stood back against the table, facing her mistress, with the rolling-pin in her hand, and rebellion in every curve of her figure and in every feature of her face.

“You are a saucy minx,” Miss Jemima was saying, in her sharpest tones.

“‘Minx’ yourself,” was the pert reply. “No mistress shan’t interfere with me and my work, as you’ve done this last week. If you was a real lady, you wouldn’t do it.”

“You rude girl, I’ll teach you to keep your place.”

“Keep your own,” rapped out the girl; “and it ’ull be the better for all parties. As for me, I shan’t keep this place, and I give you warning from now, so there!”

At this moment, the girl caught sight of her master’s face at the door, and flinging herself around to the table, resumed her work. Miss Jemima, in her great anger, advanced a pace or two, with uplifted hand, towards the broad back of her rebellious cook: “Cobbler” Horn, observing the position of affairs, spoke in emphatic tones.

“Jemima, I want you at once.”

Miss Jemima started, and then, without a word, followed her brother to the dining-room.

“Brother,” she said, snatching, in her anger, the first word, “that girl has insulted me grossly.”

“Yes, Jemima, I heard; but try to forget it for a moment. I have great news for you. This letter is about cousin Jack.”

In a moment Miss Jemima had forgotten her insubordinate cook.

“So the poor creature is found!” she said when she had taken, and read, the letter.

“Yes, and he proves to be in a condition which will render doubly welcome the good news he will shortly receive.”

“Then you persist in your intention to hand over to him a share of uncle’s money?”

“To be sure I do!”

“Well,” retorted Miss Jemima, somewhat acrimoniously, “it’s a pity. That portion of the money will be dispersed in a worse manner even than it was gathered.”

“Don’t say that, Jemima,” said her brother gravely.

“Well,” asked Miss Jemima, dispensing with further protest, “what are you going to do?”

“The first thing is to see Messrs. Tongs and Ball. You see they ask me to do so. I can’t get away to-day. To-morrow I am to visit our village, you know; and, as it is on the way to London, the best plan will be to go on when I am so far.”

So it was settled, and Miss Owen was instructed to write the lawyers, saying that Mr. Horn would wait upon them on the morning of the third day from that time.

The next morning, “Cobbler” Horn, having invested his young secretary with full powers in regard to his correspondence, during his absence, set off by an early train for Daisy Lane, en route for London. He had but a vague idea as to the village of which he was the chief proprietor. He was aware, however, that his property there, including the old hall itself, was, to quote Mr. Ball, “somewhat out of repair”; and he rejoiced in the prospect of the opportunity its dilapidation might present of turning to good account some considerable portion of his immense wealth.

It was almost noon when the train stopped at the small station at which he was to alight. He was the only passenger who left the train at that station; and, almost before his feet had touched the platform, he was greeted by a plain, middle-aged man, of medium height and broad of build, whose hair was reddish-brown and his whiskers brownish-red, while his tanned and glowing face bore ample evidence of an out-door life. He had the appearance of a good-natured, intelligent, and trustworthy man. This was John Gray, the agent of the property; and “Cobbler” Horn liked him from the first.

“It’s only a mile and a half to the village sir,” said the man, as they mounted the trap which was waiting outside the station; “and we shall soon run along.”

The trap was a nondescript and dilapidated vehicle, and the horse was by no means a thoroughbred. But the whole turn-out was faultlessly clean.

“It’s rather a crazy concern, sir,” said Mr. Gray candidly. “But you needn’t be afraid. It will hold together for this time, I think.”

“Cobbler” Horn smiled somewhat sadly, as he mounted to his seat. Here was probably an instalment of much with which he was destined to meet that day.

“Wake up, Jack!” said Mr. Gray, shaking the reins. The appearance of the animal indicated that it was necessary for him to take his master’s injunction in a literal sense. He awoke with a start, and set off at a walking pace, from which, by dint of much persuasion on the part of his driver, he was induced to pass into a gentle trot.

“He never goes any faster than that,” said the agent.

“Ah!” ejaculated “Cobbler” Horn. “But we must try to get you something better to drive about in than this, Mr. Gray.”

“Thank you, sir. It will be a good thing.”

As they slowly progressed along the pleasant country road, the agent gave his new employer sundry particulars concerning the property of which he had become possessed.

“Nearly all the village belongs to you, sir. There’s only the church and vicarage, and one farm-house, with a couple of cottages attached, that are not yours. But you’ll find your property in an awful state. I’ve done what I could to patch it up; but what can you do without money?”

“I hope, Mr. Gray,” said the new proprietor, “that we shall soon rectify all that.”

“Of course you will, sir,” said the candid agent. “It’s very painful,” he added, “to hear the complaints the people make.”

“No doubt. You must take me to see some of my tenants; but you must not tell them who I am.”

“There’s a decent house!” he remarked presently, as they came in sight of a comfortable-looking residence, which stood on their left, at the entrance of the village.

“Ah, that’s the vicarage,” replied the agent, “and the church is a little beyond, and along there, on the other side of the road, is the farm-house which does not belong to you.”

They were now entering the village, the long, straggling street of which soon afforded “the Golden Shoemaker” evidence enough of his deceased uncle’s parsimonious ideas. Half-ruined cottages and tumbledown houses were dispersed around; here and there along the main street, were two or three melancholy shops; and in the centre of the village stood a disreputable-looking public-house.

“I could wish,” said “Cobbler” Horn, as they passed the last-mentioned building, “that my village did not contain any place of that kind.”

“There’s no reason,” responded the agent, with a quiet smile, “why you should have a public-house in the place, if you don’t want one.”

“Couldn’t we have a public-house without strong drink?”

“No doubt we could, sir; but it wouldn’t pay.”

“You mean as a matter of money, of course. But that is nothing to me, and the scheme would pay in other respects. I leave it to you, Mr. Gray, to get rid of the present occupant of the house as soon as it can be done without injustice, and to convert the establishment into a public-house without the drink—a place which will afford suitable accommodation for travellers, and be a pleasant meeting place, of an evening, for the men and boys of the village.”

“Thank you, sir,” said the agent, with huge delight. “Have I carte blanche?”

“‘Carte blanche’?” queried “Cobbler” Horn, with a puzzled air. “Let me see; that’s——what? Ah, I know—a free hand, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir,” replied the agent gravely.

“Then that’s just what I mean.”

As they drove on, “Cobbler” Horn observed that most of the gardens attached to the cottages were in good order, and that some of the people had been at great pains to conceal the mouldering walls of their wretched huts with roses, honeysuckle, and various climbing plants. Glowing with honest shame, he became restlessly eager to wave his golden wand over this desolate scene.

“This is my place, sir,” said the agent, as they stopped at the gate of a dingy, double-fronted house. “You’ll have a bit of dinner with us in our humble way?”

“Thank you,” said “the Golden Shoemaker,” “I shall be very glad.”