MEMORIES.

The following morning “Cobbler” Horn called at the office of Messrs. Tongs and Ball at the appointed time. The will was ready, and, having signed it, he said “good day” to the lawyers, and took the next train to Cottonborough, where he arrived early in the afternoon.

Subsequently, at the dinner-table, he answered freely the questions of Miss Jemima concerning his doings during his absence. Nor did he feel the presence of his young secretary to be, in any degree, a restraint. Already she was as one of the family, and was almost as much in the confidence of “the Golden Shoemaker” as was Miss Jemima herself. “Cobbler” Horn told of the dilapidated condition in which he had found the village, and of the instructions he had given to the agent. At the recital of the latter, Miss Jemima held up her hands in dismay, while the eyes of the secretary glistened with unconcealed delight. But the climax was reached when “Cobbler” Horn spoke of his intentions with regard to the old Hall. Miss Jemima uttered a positive shriek, and shook her head till her straight, stiff side-curls quivered again.

“Thomas,” she cried, “you must be mad! It will cost you thousands of pounds!”

“Yes, Jemima,” was the quiet reply; “and surely they could not be better spent! And then there’ll still be a few thousands left,” he added with a smile. “It’s a way of spending the Lord’s money of which I’m sure He will approve. What do you say, Miss Owen?”

“I think it’s just splendid of you, Mr. Horn!”

To do Miss Jemima justice, her annoyance arose quite as much from the annihilation of her dearly cherished hopes of becoming the mistress of an ideal country mansion, and filling the place of lady magnificent of her brother’s village, as from the thought of the gigantic extravagance which his designs with regard to the old Hall would involve.

But the poor lady was to be yet further astonished.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you, Jemima,” said her brother, after a brief pause, and speaking with a whimsical air of apology, “that I am to start for America to-morrow.”

He spoke as though he were announcing a trip into the next county; and Miss Jemima could scarcely have shown greater amazement, if he had declared his intention of starting for the moon.

The good lady almost bounced from her seat.

“Thomas!”

She had not breath for more than that.

In truth the announcement “the Golden Shoemaker” had made was startling enough. Even Miss Owen looked up in intense surprise; and the servant girl, who was in the act of taking away the meat, was so startled that she almost let it fall into her master’s lap.

“Cobbler” Horn alone was unmoved.

“You see,” he said calmly, “when I considered the sad plight of our poor cousin, I thought it would be best for me to go and see to him myself. There are the letters,” he added, taking them from his pocket, and handing them to his sister. “You will see, Jemima, that the poor fellow is in sore straits—ill, and destitute in a low lodging-house in New York, Miss Owen! He will be informed, by now, of his change of fortune, and everything possible is to be done for him. But I feel that I can’t leave him to strangers. And then there may be a chance of leading him to the Saviour, who can tell? Besides, Jemima, a journey to America is not so much of an undertaking now-a-days, you know; and I sha’n’t be many weeks away.”

By this time, Miss Jemima had managed to recover her breath, and, in part, her wits.

“But I can’t get you ready by to-morrow, Thomas!”

“My dear Jemima, that doesn’t matter at all: whether you can get me ready or not, I must go. The lawyers will have taken my passage by this time.”

“But—but you can never take care of yourself in America, Thomas. It’s such a large country, and so dreadful; and the Americans are such strange people.”

“Never mind, Jemima,” was the pleasant reply, “Messrs. Tongs and Ball have sent a cablegram to their agent in New York, instructing him to look after me. And, besides, I’ve made my will.”

“What?” shouted Miss Jemima, “made your will?”

To Miss Jemima it seemed a dreadful thing to make one’s will. It was a last desperate resort. It was in view of death that people made their wills. It was evident her brother did not expect to get safely back.

“Yes,” repeated “Cobbler” Horn, with a quiet smile, “I’ve made my will. But, don’t be alarmed, Jemima; I sha’n’t die any the sooner for that. I did it as a wise precaution, with the approval of the lawyers. Even if I had not been going to America, I should have had to make my will sooner or later. Cheer up, Jemima! Our Heavenly Father bears rule in America, and on the sea, as well as here at home.”

Miss Jemima had relapsed into silence. She was beginning to realize the fact that her brother had made his will, which, after all, was not so very strange a thing. But what was the nature of the will? She did not desire to inherit her brother’s property herself. She was rich enough already. But she was apprehensive that he might have made some foolish disposition of his money of which she would not be able to approve. To whom, or to what she would have desired him to leave his wealth, she could not, perhaps, have told; but she would not be easy till she knew the contents of his will. And yet she could not question her brother on the subject in the presence of his secretary. The girl might be very well, but must not be allowed to know too much.

“If I don’t come back, Jemima,” said “Cobbler” Horn, as though he had read his sister’s thoughts, “you will know what my will contains soon enough. If I do—of which I have little doubt—I will tell you all about it myself.”

After dinner, “Cobbler” Horn retired, with his secretary, to the office, for the purpose of dealing with the letters which had accumulated during his absence from home. As they proceeded with their work, Miss Owen learnt that, while her employer was away in America, she was to have discretionary powers with regard to the whole of the correspondence. With all her self-confidence, the young secretary was rather staggered by this announcement; but she could obtain no release from the firm decree.

“You see, I have perfect confidence in you, Miss Owen,” explained “Cobbler” Horn, simply; “and besides, you know very well that, in most cases, you are better able to decide what to do than I am myself. But, if there are any of the letters that you would rather not deal with till I come back, just let them wait.”

This matter had been arranged during the first half-hour, in the course of a dropping conversation, carried on in the pauses of their work. They had put in a few words here and there in the crannies and crevices of their business so to speak. In the same manner, “Cobbler” Horn now proceeded to tell his secretary of his interview with his lawyers, and of the making of his will.

“The Golden Shoemaker” had already become wonderfully attached to his young secretary. She had exercised no arts; she had practised no wiles. She was a sincere, guileless, Christian girl. Shrewd enough she was, indeed, but utterly incapable of scheming for any manner of selfish or sordid end. With her divine endowment of good looks and her consecrated good nature, she could not fail to captivate; and there is small room for wonder that she had made large inroads upon “Cobbler” Horn’s big heart.

The degree to which his engaging young secretary had won the confidence of “Cobbler” Horn will appear from the fact that he was about to reveal to her, this afternoon, those particulars with regard to his recently-made will the communication of which to his sister he had avowedly postponed. It was not his intention to treat Miss Jemima with disrespect. He felt that he could freely talk to Miss Owen; with his sister it would be a matter of greater delicacy to deal. He often fancied that his young secretary was just such as his darling Marian would have been; and quite naturally, and very simply, he told her about his will, and even spoke of the money that was to be invested for his lost child. He was quite able now to talk calmly of the great sorrow of his life. The gentle and continued rubbing of the hand of time had allayed its sharper pang.

“What do you think of it all, Miss Owen?”

“I think, Mr. Horn,” said the secretary, with the end of her penholder between her ruby lips, and a wistful look in her dark eyes, “that your daughter would be a very fortunate young lady, if she only knew it; and that there are not many fathers like you.”

“Then you think I have done well?”

“I think, sir, that you have done better than well.”

After another spell of work, Miss Owen looked up again with an eager face.

“What was your little Marian like, Mr. Horn?” she asked, in a tender and subdued tone.

“Well, she was——” But the ardent girl took him up before he could proceed.

“Would she have grown to be anything like me? I suppose she would be about my age.”

She was leaning forward now, with her elbows on the table, and her hands supporting her chin. Her richly-tinted cheeks glowed with interest; her large, dark eyes shone like two bright stars. The question she had asked could not be to her more than a subject of amiable curiosity; but no doubt the enthusiastic nature of the girl fully accounted for the eagerness with which she had spoken. Her sudden enquiry wafted “Cobbler” Horn back into the past; and there rose before him the vision of a bonny little nut-brown damsel of five summers, with eyes like sloes, and a mass of dusky hair. For an instant he caught his breath. He was startled to see, in the face of his young secretary what he would probably never have detected, if her question had not pointed it out.

“Well, really, Miss Owen,” he said, simply, “now you speak of it, you are something like what my little Marian may have grown to be by this time.”

“How delicious!” exclaimed Miss Owen.

“Cobbler” Horn was gazing intently at his young secretary. What vague surmisings, like shadows on a window-blind—were flitting through his brain? What dim rays of hope were struggling to penetrate the gloom? Suddenly he started, and shook himself, with a sigh. Of course it could only be a fancy. How strange the frequent inability to perceive the significance of circumstances plainly suggestive of the fulfilment of some long-cherished hope! The joy, deferred so long comes, at last, in an hour when we are not aware, only to find us utterly oblivious that it is so near!

“Well, Miss Owen,” said “Cobbler” Horn, rising to his feet, “I must be going to my cobbling. If you want me, you will know where to come.”

“Yes, Mr. Horn.”

She was aware of his custom of resorting now and then to his old workshop. When he was gone, she paused for a moment, with her penholder once more between her lips.

“How nice to think that I am like what that dear little Marian would have been! I wonder whether we should have been friends, if she had lived? Poor little thing, she’s almost sure to be dead! Though, perhaps not—who can tell? How queer that Mr. Horn should have lost a little girl, just as I must have been lost, and about the same time too! As for my being like her—perhaps, after all, that’s only a fancy of his. Well, at any rate, I must comfort and help him all I can. I can’t step into his daughter’s place exactly; but God has put it into my power to be to him, in many things, what little Marian would have been if he had not lost her; and for Christ’s sake——”

At this point, the young secretary’s thoughts became too sacred for prying eyes. Very soon she turned to her writing again. Half an hour later, the afternoon post arrived, bringing, amongst other letters, one or two which necessitated an immediate interview with “Cobbler” Horn. To trip up to her bedroom and dress herself for going out was the work of a very few moments; and in a short time she was entering the street where “Cobbler” Horn and his sister had lived so long, and whence the hapless little Marian had so heedlessly set out into the great world, on that bright May morning so many years ago.

As Miss Owen entered the narrow street, she involuntarily raised her hand to her forehead. The weird feeling of familiarity with the old house and its vicinity, of which she had already been conscious more than once, had crept over her again.

“How very strange!” she said to herself. “But there can’t be anything in it!”

As she approached the house, she became aware of the unconcealed scrutiny of a little man who was standing in the doorway of a shop on the other side of the street.

It was Tommy Dudgeon, who had just then come to the door to show a customer out, a civility which he was wont to bestow, if possible, upon every one who came to the shop. Lingering for a moment, in the hope of descrying another customer, he saw Miss Owen coming down the street. Tommy knew about “Cobbler” Horn’s secretary; but he had not, as yet, had a fair view of the young lady. He had not even thought much about her, and he did not suspect that it was she who was now coming along the street, until she passed into the old house. But, as he saw her now, with her black hair and dark glowing face, walking along the pavement in her decided way, he felt, as he afterwards said, “quite all-overish like.” It was, at first, the vaguest of impressions that he received. Then, as he gazed, he began to think that he had seen that figure before—though he continued to assure himself that he had not; and then, as Miss Owen drew nearer, he concluded that there must be some one of whom she reminded him—some one whom he had known long ago. Then, with a flash, came back to him the scene—never to be forgotten—on that long-ago May morning; and Tommy Dudgeon heaved a sigh, for he had obtained his clue.

“What a rude little man!” thought Miss Owen. “And yet he looks harmless enough. Why he must be one of the little twin shopkeepers of whom I have heard Mr. Horn speak. That will account for his interest in me.”

The absorption of the young secretary in the duties of her office, during her stay in the old house, no doubt fully accounted for the fact that she had not become more familiar with the appearance of Tommy Dudgeon.

By this time Tommy had withdrawn into his shop. But he continued to watch. Standing partly concealed behind some of the merchandise displayed in the shop window, he saw Miss Owen enter “Cobbler” Horn’s former abode, and then waited for her once more to emerge.

In ten minutes the young secretary again appeared. Pausing on the door-step, she looked this way and that, and then, with emphatic tread, stepped out in the very track of the little twinkling feet which Tommy had watched in their last departure on that ill-fated spring morning so long ago. The little man craned his neck to see the better through the window, and then, unable to restrain himself, he hurried to the doorway of the shop once more, and, with enlightened eyes, watched the figure of the girl till it passed out of sight. Then he turned, and rushed into the kitchen behind the shop. His brother was trying to put one of the twins to sleep by carrying it to and fro; his brother’s wife was making bread. He raised his hands.

“She’s come back!” he cried. Then, recollecting himself, he said, more quietly, “I mean I’ve seen the sec’tary.”