"The will."

"Oh yes; it would be better so."

"Then we'll arrange, if possible, for this afternoon. Perhaps you know a lawyer?"

"No. Amongst all my follies, I have kept out of the hands of the lawyers.

But there is the gentleman who rescued me from that den, where I should have been dead by now. Perhaps he would do?"

"Ah, the agent of my lawyers in London! Well, I'll see him at once."

So the thing was done. That afternoon the lawyer came to receive instructions, and the next morning the will was presented and duly signed.

When the lawyer was gone, Jack turned feebly to "Cobbler" Horn.

"There's just one thing more," he said. "I must see her, and tell her about it myself."

"Would she come" asked "Cobbler" Horn. "And do you think it would be well?"

"'Come'? She would come, if I were dying at North Pole. And there will be no peace for me, till I have heard from her own lips that she has forgiven me."

"Ah!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed "Cobbler" Horn. "Do you say so?"

"Yes, cousin; I feel that it's no use to ask pardon of G.o.d, till Bertha has forgiven me. You know what I mean."

"Yes," said "Cobbler" Horn gently; "I know what you mean, and I'll do what I can."

"Thank you!" said Jack, fervently. "But it mustn't be by letter. You must go and see her yourself, if you will; and I don't think you will refuse."

"Cobbler" Horn shrank, at first, from so delicate and difficult a mission, for which he p.r.o.nounced himself utterly unfit. But the pathetic appeal of the dark, hollow eyes, which gleamed upon him from the pillow, ultimately prevailed.

"Tell her," said Jack, as "Cobbler" Horn wished him good night, "that I dare not ask pardon of G.o.d, till I have her forgiveness from her own lips."

In a village almost English in its rural loveliness "Cobbler" Horn found himself, the next morning, face to face, in the little front-room of a humble cottage, with a pale, sorrowful maiden, on whose pensively-beautiful face hope and fear mingled their lights and shadows while he delivered his tender message.

"Would she go with him?"

"Go?" she exclaimed, with trembling eagerness, "of course I will! But how good it is of you, sir--a stranger, to come like this!"

So Bertha Norman came back with "Cobbler" Horn to the private hospital in New York. He put her into her cousin's room, closed the door, and then quietly came downstairs. Bertha did not notice that her conductor had withdrawn. She flew to the bedside. The dying man put out a trembling hand.

"Forgive----" he began in broken tones.

But she stifled his words with gentle kisses, and, sitting down by the bed, clasped his poor thin hand.

"Ask G.o.d to forgive you, dear Jack. I've never stopped loving you a bit!"

"Yes, I will ask G.o.d that," he said. "I can now. But I want to tell you something first, Bertha. I am a rich man."

Then he told her the wonderful story.

"Ah!" she exclaimed, "that was your friend who brought me here. I felt that he was good."

"He is," said Jack. "And now Bertha, it's all yours. I've made my will, and the money is to come to you when I'm gone. You know I'm going, Bertha?"

She tightened the grasp of her hand on his with a convulsive movement, but did not speak.

"It 'ull be your very own, Bertha," he said.

"Yes, thank you, dear Jack. But forgive me, if I don't think much about that just now."

Then there was a brief silence, which was presently broken by Jack.

"You won't leave me, yet, Bertha? You'll stay with me a little while?"

"Jack I shall never leave you any more!" and there was a world of love in her gentle eyes.

"Thank G.o.d!" murmured the dying man. "Till----till----you mean?"

"Yes; but, Jack, you must come back to G.o.d!"

"Yes, I will. But call cousin Thomas in."

She found "the Golden Shoemaker" in a small sitting-room downstairs; and, having brought him up to the sick-chamber, stood before him in the middle of the room, and, taking his big hand, gently lifted it, with both her tiny white ones, to her lips.

"In the presence of my dear Jack," she said, "I thank you. But, dear friend, I think you should take the money back when he is gone."

"My dear young lady," protested "Cobbler" Horn, with uplifted hand, "how can I take it, seeing it is not mine? But," he added softly, "we will not speak of it now."

True to her promise, Bertha did not leave her beloved Jack until the end; and the regular attendants, supplied by the house, so far from regarding her presence as an intrusion, were easily induced to look upon her as one of themselves. "Cobbler" Horn was rarely absent during the day-time; and, in the brief remaining s.p.a.ce of poor Jack's chequered life, his gentle lover, and his high-souled cousin, had the great joy of leading him to entertain a genuine trust in the Saviour. The end came so suddenly, that they had no time for parting words; but they had good hope, as they reverently closed his eyes. When all was over, and he had been laid to rest in the cemetery, "Cobbler" Horn took Bertha back to her village home, and then set his face once more towards England, bearing in his heart a chastened memory, and the image of a sweet, pensive face.

CHAPTER XXVI.

HOME AGAIN.

It was with feelings of deep grat.i.tude to G.o.d 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.