HOME AGAIN.

It was with feelings of deep gratitude to God that “Cobbler” Horn set foot once more upon his native land. After having been away no longer than four weeks, he landed at Liverpool on a bright winter’s morning, and, taking an early train, reached Cottonborough about mid-day. He had telegraphed the time of his arrival, and Bounder, the coachman, was at the station to meet him with the dog-cart. He had sent his message for the purpose of preparing his sister for his arrival; for he knew she preferred not to be taken unawares by such events. If he had given the matter a thought, he would have told them not to send to meet him at the station. He would much rather have walked, than ridden, a distance so short. And then he shrank, at all times, from the idea of making a public parade of his newly-acquired state. And, if all the truth must be told, he was—not awed, but mildly irritated, by the imposing presence, and reproachful civility, of the ideal Bounder.

Here was Bounder now, with his dignified salute. “Cobbler” Horn yearned to give the man a hearty shake of the hand, and ask him sociably how he had been getting on. This was obviously out of the question; but, just then, little Tommy Dudgeon happened to come up, on his way into the station. Here was an opportunity not to be let slip, and “Cobbler” Horn seized with avidity on his humble little friend, and gave him the hearty hand-shake which he would fain have bestowed upon the high and mighty Bounder. It was a means of grace to “the Golden Shoemaker” once more to clasp the hand of a compatriot and a friend. He stood talking to Tommy for a few minutes, while Bounder waited in his seat with an expression of very slightly veiled scorn on his majestic face.

At length, quite oblivious of the contemptuous disapproval of his coachman, and greatly refreshed in spirit, “Cobbler” Horn bade his little friend “good day,” and mounted to his seat.

They drove off in silence. “Cobbler” Horn scarcely knew whether his exacting coachman would think it proper for his master to enter into conversation with him; and the coachman, on his part, would not be guilty of such a breach of decorum as to speak to his master when his master had not first spoken to him.

Miss Jemima was standing in the doorway to receive her brother; and behind her, with a radiant face, modestly waited the young secretary. Miss Jemima presented her cheek, as though for the performance of a surgical operation, and “Cobbler” Horn kissed it with a hearty smack. At the same time he grasped her hand.

“Well, Jemima,” he exclaimed, “I’m back again safe and sound, you see!”

“Yes,” was the solemn response, “I’m thankful to see you, brother,—and relieved.”

“Cobbler” Horn laughed heartily, and kissed her on the other cheek.

“Thankful enough, Jemima, let us be. But ‘relieved’! well, I had no fear. You see, my dear sister, the whole round world lies in the hand of God. And, then, I didn’t understand the way the Lord has been dealing with me of late to mean that he was going to allow me to be cut off quite so soon as that.”

This was said cheerily, and not at all in a preaching tone; and having said it, “Cobbler” Horn turned, with genuine pleasure, to exchange a genial greeting with his young secretary, who had remained sedately in the background.

“Dinner is almost ready,” said Miss Jemima, as they entered the house; “so you must not spend long in your room.”

“I promise you,” said her brother, from the stairs, “that I shall be at the table almost as soon as the dinner itself.”

During dinner, “Cobbler” Horn talked much about his voyage to and fro, and his impressions of America. He had sent, by letter, during his absence, a regular report, from time to time, of the progress of the sorrowful business which had taken him across the sea; and with regard to that neither he nor his sister was now inclined to speak at large.

After dinner, “Cobbler” Horn, somewhat to his sister’s mortification, retired to the office, for the purpose of receiving, from his secretary, a report of the correspondence which had passed through her hands during his absence.

Let it not be supposed that Miss Jemima was capable of entertaining suspicion with regard to her brother. She would frown upon his doings and disapprove of his opinions, with complete unreserve; but she would not admit concerning him a shadow of mistrust. When, therefore, it is recorded that his frequent and close intercourse with his young secretary occasioned his sister uneasiness of mind, it must not be supposed that any evil imagining intruded upon her thoughts. Miss Jemima was simply fearful lest this young girl should, perhaps inadvertently, steal into the place in her brother’s heart which belonged to her. As “Cobbler” Horn and his secretary sat in counsel, from time to time, in their respective arm-chairs, at the opposite ends of the office table, neither of them had any suspicion of Miss Jemima’s jealous fears.

Miss Owen had dealt diligently, and with much shrewdness, with the ever-inflowing tide of letters. Her labour was much lightened now by reason of “Cobbler” Horn’s having provided her with the best type-writer that could be obtained for money. With regard to some of the letters, she had ventured to avail herself of the advice of the minister; and she had also, with great tact, consulted Miss Jemima on points with reference to which the opinion of that lady was likely to be sound and safe. The consequence was that the letters which remained to be considered were comparatively few.

First, Miss Owen gave her employer an account of the letters of which she had disposed; then she unfolded such matters as were still the subjects of correspondence; and lastly she laid before him the letters with which she had not been able to deal.

The most important of all the letters were two long ones from Messrs. Tongs and Ball and Mr. Gray, respectively, relating to the improvements in progress at Daisy Lane in general, and in particular to the work of altering and fitting up the old Hall for the great and gracious purpose on which its owner had resolved. “The Golden Shoemaker” was gratified to learn, from these letters, that the work of renovating his dilapidated property had been so well begun, and that already, amongst his long-suffering tenants, great satisfaction was beginning to prevail. The remaining letters were passed under review, and then “Cobbler” Horn lingered for a few moment’s chat.

“I mean to take my sister and you to see the village and the Hall one day soon, Miss Owen,” he said.

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Horn!” enthusiastically exclaimed the young secretary.

“You would like to go?”

“I should love it dearly! I can’t tell you, Mr. Horn, how much I am interested in that kind and generous scheme of yours for the old Hall.”

In her intercourse with her employer, “Cobbler” Horn’s secretary was quite free and unreserved, as indeed he wished her to be.

“It’s to be a home for orphans, isn’t it?” she asked.

“Not for orphans only,” he replied, tenderly, as he thought of his own lost little one. “It’s for children who have no home, whether orphans or not,—little waifs, you know, and strays—children who have no one to care for them.”

“I’m doing it,” he added, simply, “for the sake of my little Marian.”

“Oh, how good of you! And, do you know, Mr. Horn, its being for waifs and strays makes me like it all the more; because I was a waif and stray once myself.”

She was leaning forward, with her elbows on the table, and her pretty but decided chin resting on her doubled hands. As she spoke, her somewhat startling announcement presented itself to her in a serio-comic light, and a whimsical twinkle came into her eyes. The same impression was shared by “Cobbler” Horn; and, regarding his young secretary, with her neatly-clothed person, her well-arranged hair, and her capable-looking face, he found it difficult to regard as anything but a joke the announcement that she had once been, as she expressed it, “a waif and stray.”

“You!” he exclaimed, with an indulgent smile.

“Yes, Mr. Horn, I was indeed a little outcast girl. Did not Mr. Durnford tell you that the dear friends who have brought me up are not my actual parents?”

“Yes,” replied “ Cobbler” Horn, slowly, “he certainly did. But I did not suspect——”

“Of course not!” laughed the young girl. “You would never dream of insulting me by supposing that I had once been a little tramp!”

“No, of course not,” agreed “Cobbler” Horn, with a perplexed smile.

“It’s true, nevertheless,” affirmed Miss Owen. “Mr. and Mrs. Burton have been like parents to me almost ever since I can remember, and I always call them ‘father’ and ‘mother’; but they are no more relations to me than are you and Miss Horn. They found me in the road, a poor little ragged mite; and they took me home, and I’ve been just like their own ever since. I remember something of it, in a vague sort of way.”

“Cobbler” Horn was regarding his secretary with a bewildered gaze.

“You may well be astonished, Mr. Horn. But, do you know, sometimes I almost feel glad that I don’t know my real father and mother. They must have been dreadful people. But, whatever they were, they could never have been better to me than Mr. and Mrs. Burton have been. They have treated me exactly as if I had been their own child.”

Many confused thoughts were working in the brain of “Cobbler” Horn.

“But,” said Miss Owen, resuming her work, “I must tell you about it another time.”

“Yes, you shall,” said “Cobbler” Horn, rousing himself. “I shall want to hear it all.”

So saying, he left the room, and betook himself to his old workshop for an hour or two on his beloved cobbler’s bench. He had placed the old house under the care of a widow, whom he permitted to live there rent free, and to have the use of the furniture which remained in the house, and to whom, in addition, he paid a small weekly fee.

As he walked along the street, he could not fail to think of what his secretary had just said with reference to her early life. His thoughts were full of pathetic interest. Then she too had been a little homeless one! The fact endeared to him, more than ever, the bright young girl who had come like a stream of sunshine into his life. For to “Cobbler” Horn his young secretary was indeed becoming very dear. It could not be otherwise. She was just filling his life with the gentle and considerate helpfulness which he had often thought would have been afforded to him by his little Marian. And now, it seemed to draw this young girl closer to him still, when he learnt that she had once been homeless and friendless, as he had too much reason to fear that his own little one had become. He had a feeling also that the coincidence therein involved was strange.