The image of the latter was imprinted on her mind with the exactness of a photograph, with its every wrinkle and spot, and every slash it had received from that unknown, wanton hand. She _could_ compare the two shoes here and now, as exactly as though she actually saw them side by side. Yes, this little shoe was indeed the fellow of her own! And the strip of print--what was it but her missing bonnet-string? She had found what she had so often longed to find. And she herself was--yes, why should she hesitate to say it?--the little Marian of whom she had so often heard!

How wonderful it was! Here was truth stranger than fiction, indeed! She laughed--a gentle, trilling laugh, low and sweet. But ah, she could not tell him! She could not say to him, "I am the daughter you lost so long ago. I have seen in your safe the fellow of the shoe I wore when I was found by my kind friends." Of course it would convince him; but she could not say it. She must wait until he found out the truth for himself. But would he ever find it out? She hoped and thought he would. Had he not marked what she said about her having had on only one shoe when she was found? And would not that lead him to think and enquire? Meanwhile, she herself knew the wonderful truth; and she could afford to wait. It would all come right, of course it would; any other thought was too ridiculous to be entertained.

Very quietly, and with almost reverent fingers, she wound the faded bonnet-string once more around the little shoe, and wrapped them up again in the much-crumpled paper.

"How often must he have unfolded it!" was the thought that nestled in her heart, as she replaced the precious parcel in the safe, and closed and locked the ponderous door.

From the office, the young secretary went directly to her own room. To open her trunk, and plunge her hand down into the corner where lay her own little parcel of relics, was the work of a moment. There was certainly no room for doubt. The little, stout, leather shoe which she had treasured so long was the fellow of the one she had just seen in the safe downstairs.

There was the very same curve of the sole, made by the pressure of the little foot--her own, and similar inequalities in the upper part. With a sudden movement, she lifted the tiny shoe to her lips. And here was her funny old sun-bonnet! How often she had wondered what had become of its other string! Last of all, she took up the little chemise, which completed her simple store of relics, and gazed intently upon the red letters with which it was marked. All uncertainty as to their meaning was gone. What could "M.H." stand for but "Marian Horn"? With a grateful heart, she rolled up her treasures, and, having consigned them once more to their place in the trunk, went downstairs. Miss Jemima was indisposed; and, having seen the nurse duly installed in the sick-room, she had retired for the night. Accordingly, Miss Owen, much to her relief, had supper by herself. She felt that she did not wish to talk to any one just at present, and to Miss Jemima least of all.

When the young secretary fell asleep that night, she was lulled with the sweetness of the thought that she had not only found her father, but had discovered him in the person of the best man she had ever known. The discovery of her father might have proved a bitter disappointment; it was actually such as to fill her with unspeakable grat.i.tude. She did not greatly regret that she had not found her mother, as well as her father.

It would probably have caused her real grief, if any one had appeared to claim the place in her heart which was held by the woman from whom she had always received, in a peculiar degree, a mother's love and a mother's care. One could find room for any number of fathers--provided they were worthy. But a mother!--her place was sacred; there could be no sharing of her throne.

CHAPTER x.x.xIX.

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 pa.s.sed 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 antic.i.p.ated 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 a.s.sist 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 pa.s.sed 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, a.s.serted itself, the young girl had slept only in pleasant s.n.a.t.c.hes, waking every now and then from some delicious dream, to a.s.sure 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 a.s.surance 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.