A JOYOUS DISCOVERY.

It was long that night before “Cobbler” Horn fell asleep. He was free from pain, and felt better altogether than at any time since the beginning of his illness. Yet he could not sleep. The story of his young secretary, as she had told it this evening, had supplied him with thoughts calculated to banish slumber from the most drowsy eyes.

Miss Owen had told him her simple story many times before; but this evening she had introduced certain new particulars of a startling kind; and it was as the result of the thoughts thereby suggested that he was unable to sleep. The few additional details which the young secretary had included in her narrative this evening had given a new aspect to the story. There was the solitary shoe she had worn at the time when she had come into the kind hands of Mr. and Mrs. Burton, and the fact that she was a very indistinct talker at the time. The entire story, too, seemed to correspond so well—why should he not admit it?—with what might not improbably have been the history of his little Marian; and Marian would be, at that time, about the same age as was Miss Owen when she was found by the friends whose adopted child she became. But the solitary shoe! He wondered whether it was still in her possession. He would ask her in the morning. And then the indistinct talk of which she had spoken! How well he remembered the pretty broken speech of his own little pet! Then there returned to him that gleam of intelligence with regard to the meaning of the strange words of Tommy Dudgeon with which he had been visited at the beginning of his illness. Surely this was what his faithful friend had meant! From the great affection of the little huckster for Marian, it was likely that he would have a vivid recollection of the child; and no doubt the little man had already discerned what the father himself was only now, after so many hints, beginning to perceive. Thus he pondered through the night. Strange to say, he felt neither sleepy nor tired. He was refreshed by the gracious prophecy of coming joy which the story of his young secretary had supplied; and when, after falling asleep in the early hours of the morning, he awoke towards eight o’clock, he felt as though he had slept all night.

It was the custom for the young secretary to pay a visit to her employer’s room soon after breakfast, for the purpose of laying before him any of the morning’s letters to which it was imperative that his personal attention should be given. Most frequently Miss Owen’s visit was, as far as business was concerned, a mere formality, or little more. There were few of the letters with which she herself was not able to deal; and all that was necessary, as a rule, was for her to make a general report, which “Cobbler” Horn invariably received with an approving smile. Then the favoured young secretary would linger for a few moments in the room. She would hover about the bed; asking how he had passed the night; performing a variety of tender services, which, though he had not previously realized the need of them, increased his comfort to a wonderful extent; and talking, all the while, in her merry, heartsome way, like a privileged child, with now and then a gentle, cooing little laugh.

There was nothing, in the whole course of the day, that “the Golden Shoemaker” enjoyed so much as the morning visit of his fresh young secretary. But he had never before anticipated it as eagerly as he did this morning. He had long looked upon this young girl rather in the light of a devoted daughter, than of a paid secretary. What if, unconsciously to them both, she had thus grown into her rightful place! As the time approached for her appearance, he had insensibly brought himself to face more fully the wonderful possibility which had been presenting itself to his mind during the last few hours. The nurse was surprised that, though he seemed to be even better than usual, he could scarcely eat any breakfast. All the time, he was watching the door, and listening for the slightest sound. He wondered whether Miss Owen still had in her possession the little shoe of which she had spoken. He must ask her that at once. And how he yearned to search her face, with one long, scrutinising gaze!

At last she came, radiant, as usual! Did he notice that a slight shyness veiled her face, and that there was an unusual tremor in her voice as she wished him “good morning”? If “Cobbler” Horn perceived these signs, he paid them but scant regard. He was too much absorbed in his own thoughts, to consider what those of his young secretary might be; and he was too busily engaged in scrutinising the permanent features of her face, to give much heed to its transient expression. What he saw did not greatly assist in the settlement of the question which occupied his mind. And small wonder that it should be so; for, when he had last seen his Marian, she was a little girl of five.

No less eagerly than “Cobbler” Horn scanned the countenance of his young secretary, did her eyes, that morning, seek his face. She too had passed a broken night. But it had not seemed wearisome or long. Happy thoughts had rendered sleep an impertinence at first; and, when healthy youthful nature had, at length, asserted itself, the young girl had slept only in pleasant snatches, waking every now and then from some delicious dream, to assure herself that the sweetest dream could not be half so delightful as the glad reality which had come into her life.

If these two people could have read each other’s thoughts——But that might not be. She wished him “good morning,” in her own bright way; and he responded with his usual benignant smile. Then they proceeded to business. There was one very important letter, which demanded some expenditure of time. The secretary was not altogether herself. Her hand trembled a little, and there was a slight quaver in her voice. Her employer noticed these signs of discomposure, and spoke of them in his kindly way.

“Surely you are not well this morning!” he said, placing his hand lightly on her wrist.

His secretary was usually so self-possessed.

“Oh yes,” she said, with a start, “I am quite well—quite.”

She smiled at the very idea of her not being well, knowing what she did.

“Come and sit down beside me for a little while,” said “Cobbler” Horn, when their business was finished; “and let us have some talk.”

It was the ordinary invitation; but there was something unusual in the tone of his voice. As the young girl took her seat at the bedside, her previous agitation in some degree returned. “Cobbler” Horn’s fingers closed upon her hand, with a gentle pressure.

“My dear young lady, there is something that I wish to ask you.”

There was just the slightest tremor in his voice; and the young secretary was distinctly conscious of the beating of her heart.

“Yes, sir,” she said, faintly, trembling a little.

“Don’t be agitated,” he continued, for it was impossible to overlook the fact of her excitement. “It’s a very simple matter.”

He did not know—how could he?—that her thoughts were running in the same direction as his own.

“You said,” he pursued, “that, when you were found by your good friends, you were wearing only one shoe. Did you—have you that shoe still?”

It was evident that he was agitated now. Miss Owen started, and he could feel her hand quiver within his grasp, like a frightened bird.

“Yes,” she answered in a whisper, above which she felt powerless to raise her voice, “I have kept it ever since.”

“Then,” he resumed, having now quite recovered his self-possession, “would you mind letting me see it?”

With a strong effort, she succeeded in maintaining her self-control.

“Oh no, not at all, sir!” she said, rising, and moving towards the door; “I’ll fetch it at once. But it isn’t much to look at now,” she added over her shoulder, as she left the room.

“‘Not much to look at’!” laughed “the Golden Shoemaker” softly to himself. There was nothing that he had ever been half so anxious to see!

Five minutes later he was sitting up in bed, turning over and over in his hands the fellow of the little shoe which he had cherished for so many years as the dearest memento of his lost child. Could there be any doubt? Was it not his own handiwork? It had evidently received several random slashes with a knife, and it still bore traces of mud. But he knew his own work too well; and had he not looked upon the fellow of this shoe every day for the last twelve years?

Strange to say, so completely absorbed was “Cobbler” Horn in contemplating the shoe which his Marian had worn, that, for the moment, he did not think of Marian herself. At length he looked up. But he was alone. Discretion, and the tumult of her emotions, had constrained the young secretary to withdraw from the room. Putting a strong hand upon herself, she had retired to the office, where she was, at that moment, diligently at work.

“Cobbler” Horn sighed. But perhaps it was better that the young girl had withdrawn. There was little room for doubt; but he must make assurance doubly sure. He touched the electric bell at the head of the bed, and the nurse immediately appeared.

“Will you be so good as to tell Miss Horn I should like to see her at once.”

The nurse, marking the eagerness with which the request was uttered, and observing the little shoe on the counterpane, perceived that the occasion was urgent, and departed on her errand with all speed.

“I don’t think he is any worse this morning,” she said to Miss Jemima when she had delivered her message. “Indeed he seems, quite unaccountably, to be very much better. But it is evident something has happened.”

Without waiting to hear more, Miss Jemima hurried to her brother’s room. Sitting up in bed, with a happy face, he was holding in his hand a dilapidated child’s shoe, which he placed in his sister’s hands as soon as she approached the bed.

“Jemima, look at that!” he said joyously.

Thinking it was the shoe which her brother had always preserved with so much care, she took it, and examined it with much concern.

“Whoever can have cut it about like that?” she cried.

“Cobbler” Horn hastened to rectify her mistake.

“No, Jemima,” he said, in a tone of reverent exultation; “it’s the other shoe—the one we’ve been wanting to find all these years!”

The first thought of Miss Jemima was that her brother had gone mad. Then she examined the shoe more closely.

“To be sure!” she said. “How foolish of me! Those cuts were made long ago.”

As she spoke, she put her hand on the table at the bedside, to steady herself.

“Brother,” she demanded, in trembling tones, “where did you get this shoe? Did it come by the morning post?”

“Cobbler” Horn answered deliberately. He would give his sister time to take in the meaning of his words.

“It has been in the possession of Miss Owen. She brought it to me just now.”

“Miss Owen?”

Miss Jemima’s first impulse was towards indignation. What had Miss Owen been doing with the shoe? But the next moment, she reflected that there must be some reasonable explanation of the fact that the shoe had been in the possession of her brother’s secretary—though what that explanation might be Miss Jemima could not, as yet, divine.

“She has had it,” resumed “Cobbler” Horn, in the same quiet tone as before, “ever since she was a little girl. She was wearing it when she was found by the good people by whom she was adopted.”

Then light came to Miss Jemima, clear and full. She grasped her brother’s shoulder, and remembered his weakness only just in time to refrain from giving him a vigorous shake.

“Brother, brother,” she cried, “do you understand what your words may mean?”

“Yes, Jemima—in part, at least. But we must make sure. First we will put the two shoes together, and see that they really are the same.”

“Why, surely, Thomas, you have no doubt?”

“There seems little room for it, indeed; but we cannot make too sure!”

He wanted to give himself time to become accustomed to the great joy which was dawning on his life.

“You know where the other shoe is, Jemima?”

“Yes, in the safe.”

“Yes; and you know that, while I have been up here, Miss Owen has kept the key of the safe?”

“Yes.”

Miss Jemima had undergone much mental chafing by reason of that knowledge.

“Well, will you go to her in the office, and say I wish you to bring me something out of the safe? She will not know what you bring. She will just hand you the key, and go on with her work.”

“Yes, I will go, brother. But are you sure she knows or suspects nothing? She may have seen the shoe.”

“Oh no; it is well wrapped up, and I am sure she would not touch the parcel. I can trust my secretary,” he added, with a new-born pride.

As Miss Jemima went down stairs, she wondered she had not long ago lighted on the discovery which her brother had now made. It explained many things. The tones and gestures which had so often startled her by their familiarity; the vague feeling that, at some time, she must have known this young girl before; the growing resemblance—evident to Miss Jemima’s eyes, at least—of the young secretary to “Cobbler” Horn—these things, which, with many kindred signs, Miss Jemima had hidden in her heart, had their explanation in the discovery which had just been made.

Miss Owen yielded the key of the safe without question. Though she appeared to take no notice of Miss Jemima’s doings, she knew, as by instinct, what Miss Jemima was taking out of the safe; and she told herself that she must not, and would not, let it appear that she supposed anything unusual was going on. She went on quietly with her work; but it was by dint of such an effort of self-control, as few human beings have ever found it necessary to make, or could have made.

As the result of the young secretary’s effort of self-repression, there appeared in her face, at the moment when Miss Jemima turned to leave the room, an expression so much like that assumed by the countenance of “Cobbler” Horn at times when he was very firm, that the heart of Miss Jemima gave a mighty bound.

Meanwhile Miss Jemima’s brother was eagerly awaiting her return. She had been absent less than five minutes, when she once more entered his room.

“There,” she said, holding the two little shoes out towards her brother, side by side, “there can be no doubt about the shoes, at any rate. They are a pair, sure enough. Why,” she continued, turning up the shoe that Miss Owen had produced, “I remember noticing, that very morning, that half the leather was torn away from the heel of one of the child’s shoes, just like that.”

As she spoke, she held out the shoe, and showed her brother that its heel had been damaged exactly as she had described. Then a strange thing happened to Miss Jemima. She dropped the little shoes upon the bed, and, covering her face with her hands, cried gently for a few moments. “The Golden Shoemaker” gazed at his sister in some wonder; and then two large tears gathered in his own eyes, and rolled down his cheeks.

All at once Miss Jemima almost fiercely dashed her hand across her eyes.

“Brother,” she cried, “I’ve often heard of tears of joy; but I didn’t think I should live to say they were the only ones I had shed since I was a little child! But there’s no mistake about those shoes. And there’s no doubt about anything else either.”

“Cobbler” Horn was, perhaps, quite as confident as his sister; but he was a little more cautious.

“Yes, Jemima,” he said; “but we must be careful. A mistake would be dreadful—both on our own account, and on that of—of Miss Owen. We must send for Mr. and Mrs. Burton at once. Mr. Durnford will telegraph. It will be necessary, of course, to tell him of our discovery; but he may be trusted not to breathe it to any one else.”

Miss Jemima readily assented to her brother’s proposal. Mr. Durnford was sent for, and came without delay. His astonishment on hearing the wonderful news his friends had to tell was hardly as great as they expected. It is possible that this arose from the fact that he was acquainted with the story of Miss Owen, and that his eyes and ears had been open during the last few months. It was, however, with no lack of heartiness that he complied with the request to send a telegram summoning Mr. and Mrs. Burton to “Cobbler” Horn’s bedside.