"Yes," said Mr. Burton, "that is undoubtedly Miss Owen's little shoe."

"And this," said Mrs. Burton, "is unquestionably its fellow," and, taking up the shoes, she held them towards her husband.

"You are certainly right, my dear."

Then there was silence for a brief s.p.a.ce, while these two simple-hearted people bent, with deep emotion, over the little baby shoes which seemed to prove so much.

Mrs. Burton was the first to speak.

"Well," she said, calmly, but with a quivering lip, "we are to lose our child; but the will of the Lord be done."

Mr. Burton's only utterance was a deep sigh.

"Nay," said "Cobbler" Horn, "if it really be as I cannot help hoping it is, you will, perhaps, not lose so much as you think. But I am sure you will not begrudge me the joy of finding my child."

"No, indeed, dear sir. On the contrary, we will rejoice with you as well as we can--and with her."

These were the words of Mrs. Burton, and they received confirmation from her husband.

At this point, Tommy Dudgeon quietly entered the room, and took his seat, at a motion from Miss Jemima, behind the chairs on which Mr. and Mrs.

Burton were sitting.

"I have been anxious," resumed "Cobbler" Horn, "thoroughly to a.s.sure myself that there was no mistake. Here is our friend, Dudgeon, now. You saw him the day we opened the 'Home.'"

Perceiving Tommy for the first time, Mr. and Mrs. Burton gave him a hearty greeting.

"Our friend knows," continued "Cobbler" Horn, "that I've been very sceptical about the good news."

"Very much so!" said Tommy, nodding his head.

"Cobbler" Horn smiled.

"He was the first to find it out. You must know that he took much kind interest in my little girl; and it was a great grief to him that she was lost. And when your adopted daughter came to us, he was not long in forming conjectures as to who she might be. In a very short time, as a matter of fact, he had quite made up his mind. He tried to tell me about it; but I was too stupid to understand him, and so it was left for me to find out the happy truth by accident. Tell our friends, Tommy, how you came to discover who Miss Owen really was."

Thus enjoined, Tommy, nothing loath, recounted once more the story of his great discovery. Mr. and Mrs. Burton listened with deep attention, and, having put several questions to Tommy, admitted that what he had said afforded much confirmation to the supposition that Miss Owen was the long-lost Marian.

"I have a thought about the child's name," said Mrs. Burton after a brief pause. "It comes to me that what she gave us as her name sounded quite as much like _Marian Horn_ as _Mary Ann Owen_."

"Why yes," said Miss Jemima, "now I think of it, she used to p.r.o.nounce her name very much as though it had been something like _Mary Ann Owen_. As well as I can remember, it was 'Ma--an O--on.'"

"I believe you are right, Jemima," said her brother.

"It must be admitted," interposed Mr. Burton quickly, "that _Mary Ann Owen_ was a very reasonable interpretation of that combination of sounds."

"Undoubtedly it was," a.s.sented "Cobbler" Horn.

"Yes," said Mrs. Burton, "what you say, Miss Horn, is very much like the way in which the child p.r.o.nounced her name. And there's another thing which may serve as a further mark. She had on, beneath the old shawl, a little chemise, on which were worked, in red, the letters 'M.H.'"

"I know it!" cried Miss Jemima. "I always marked her clothes like that.

You used to laugh at me, Thomas; but what do you say now?"

"Well, well!" said "the Golden Shoemaker" softly.

"And listen to me," resumed Miss Jemima. "I am beginning to recollect, too. Marian's hair was very stubborn; and there were two or three tufts at the back which always would stand up, like black feathers."

"I remember that very well," said Mrs. Burton, with a smile.

"Of course," agreed her husband; "and many a joke we used to have about it. I called her my little blackbird."

"And then," continued Miss Jemima, "there was another thing. A few days before the child's disappearance, she fell down and hurt her knee; and there were two scars, one on the knee, and another just below."

"Ah," said Mrs. Burton, "I remember those scars. Don't you, John?"

"Yes; and I used to tell her she was an old soldier, and had been in the wars."

"So you did; and--dear me, how old memories are beginning to come back!--she talked a great deal, not only of her 'daddy,' but of 'Aunt 'Mima.' I wonder I didn't think of that before. Perhaps, ma'am----"

"That's me!" cried Miss Jemima. "My name's Jemima; and 'Aunt 'Mima' was what she always called me. There, Thomas, do you want any further proof?"

"Cobbler" Horn was lying with his hands over his face, and the bed was shaking with his convulsive efforts to repress his strong emotion. Fear had impelled him to withstand his growing conviction that his long-lost child had been restored to him--fear of the consequences of a mistake, both to himself, and to the bright young girl whom he had already learnt to love as though she were indeed his child. But now, one after another, his doubts had been beaten down. He had listened eagerly to every word that had been spoken around his bed, and conviction had taken absolute possession of his mind. Yet, for the moment, the shock of his great joy seemed almost more than his weakened nerves could bear.

His friends stood around the bed, fearing for him. But, in a few moments, he withdrew his hands from his face, which was wet with the gracious tears of joy.

He clasped his hands, and looked reverently upward.

"'My soul doth magnify the Lord; and my spirit hath rejoiced in G.o.d, my Saviour.'"

That was all.

"You would like us to leave you, brother?" asked Miss Jemima.

"For a very short time."

He was quite himself again.

"She is out still, isn't she?"

"Yes," replied Miss Jemima. "She will be in soon, no doubt. You would like to see her. Well, leave that to me."

Then they left him to his blissful thoughts.

For many minutes, he gratefully communed with G.o.d. He was thankful his child had come back to him so beautiful, and clever, and good. He could regard her with as much pride as love; though he told himself he would have loved her, and done all in his power to make her happy, whatever she had proved to be. And then, how glad he was that she had found her way into his heart before he knew she was his child.

Great, indeed, was the joy of "the Golden Shoemaker!" That very day he was to clasp his long-lost child to his heart!

The door of his room had been left ajar. Presently he heard the front-door open downstairs; and then there were voices in the hall, one of which he recognised as hers. The next moment he knew that she was coming upstairs.

They had not told her the great news yet, of course? No; she was going direct to her own room.

He took up the little shoes, which had been left lying on the bed. How well he remembered making them! He had selected for the purpose the very best bit of leather in his stock. He was proceeding to examine more closely the shoe that had been mutilated, when he heard the sound of a door being opened which he knew to be that of his young secretary's room.