Would she come to him before going downstairs? In truth, he wished not to see her until she had been told the great news. He breathed more freely when he heard her foot on the stairs.

When "Cobbler" Horn had been alone about half an hour, Miss Jemima returned to the room. Mrs. Burton, she said, was in the dining-room, with----Marian. There was just the slightest hesitation in Miss Jemima's p.r.o.nunciation of the name. Her brother's tea would come up in a few minutes. After he had taken it, he would perhaps be ready for the interview he so much desired.

"Tea!"

"Oh, but," said his matter-of-fact sister, "you must try to take it--as a duty."

"I'll do my best," he said; "but I must be up and dressed before she comes, Jemima."

Miss Jemima demurred, but ultimately agreed.

"I should like Mr. Durnford to be here," he continued, "and Tommy Dudgeon, and Mr. and Mrs. Burton."

"They shall all be present," said Miss Jemima.

"And you, Jemima, you will take care to be in the room at the time."

"Brother," responded the lady, "you may trust me for that."

CHAPTER XLII.

FATHER AND DAUGHTER.

Mrs. Burton, closeted with her adopted daughter, in the dining-room, found, to her surprise, that Miss Owen was not unprepared for the communication she was about to receive. Since her discovery of the little shoe--the fellow of her own--in her employer's safe, and the startling conclusion at which she had thereupon arrived, the young secretary had been in a vaguely expectant state of mind. The great fact she had discovered could not long remain concealed from the person whom, next to herself, it most concerned. Of course, it was impossible for her to speak out. But she had only to wait, and all would come right.

She saw now why "Cobbler" Horn had been so much agitated to hear that, when she was found by Mr. and Mrs. Burton, she was wearing only one shoe; and she was not surprised, the next morning, when he asked to see the shoe itself. As the day pa.s.sed, she was instinctively aware that something unusual was going on. The visit of Tommy Dudgeon; the circ.u.mstance that she was not summoned to "Cobbler" Horn's room as usual, during the day; and her being unexpectedly despatched to take Susie Martin for a drive--were all signs pointing in one direction; and when, on her return from the drive, she was greeted with the announcement that Mrs. Burton was waiting to see her in the dining-room, she felt sure that the great secret was known. And she could not be much surprised, therefore, when, in the end, Mrs. Burton proceeded to make in set terms, the communication with which she was charged.

"My dear," said the good lady, fondly kissing her adopted daughter, "I'm sure you will be surprised to see me."

"I'm delighted, at any rate, dear mother," was the pardonably evasive reply.

"Not more than I am!" exclaimed the good creature. Notwithstanding the loss she expected to sustain through the discovery which had been made, she had schooled herself to rejoice in the happiness which had come to her child. "But," she added, "you, my dear, will be more delighted still, when you hear the news I have to tell."

As she spoke, she led the young secretary to a chair, and, having caused her to be seated, sat down on another chair by her side. Then she took her companion's hand and held it tenderly in her lap.

"My dear, I want to ask you something."

The good lady tried to be calm, but her tones grew tremulous as she spoke.

Miss Owen, too, was becoming excited, in spite of herself.

"Yes, mother dear," and the girl seemed to put special and loving emphasis on the word "mother."

"Do you remember," continued Mrs. Burton, "how, when you were all at Daisy Lane, at the opening of the 'Home,' we were talking about Mr. Horn having lost his little girl in some mysterious fashion; and you said, laughing, what fun it would be, if you turned out to be that very little girl?"

"Yes, mother," was the reply, uttered in low and agitated tones, "I remember very well."

"You didn't think that such a wonderful thing would ever come to pa.s.s, did you, dear?" asked Mrs. Burton, gently stroking the back of the plump little brown hand, which lay pa.s.sive in her lap.

"No," replied the girl, "I certainly did not; and it was just a mad joke, of course."

As she spoke her whole frame quivered, and she made as though she would have withdrawn her hand and risen to her feet. Mrs. Burton tightened her grasp upon the fluttering hand in her lap, and gently restrained the agitated girl.

"I haven't finished yet, dear," she said. "You know the saying that 'many a true word is spoken in jest'?"

"Yes, yes----"

"Well--try to be calm, my child--it has been found out----"

"I know what you are going to say, mother," broke in the young girl. "It is that I have found my father--my very own; though I can never forget the only father I have known these years, and I haven't found another mother, and don't want to."

Then the woman and the child--for she was little more--became locked in a close embrace. After some minutes, Mrs. Burton unclasped the young arms from her neck, and, sitting hand in hand with her adopted daughter, she told her all the wondrous tale.

"So you see, my child," she concluded, "your name is not Owen after all; it is not even Mary Ann."

"No," said the girl, with a bewitching touch of scorn. "Mary Ann Owen, forsooth! I always had my doubts. Horn is not much better in itself. But it is my father's name; and Marian is all that could be desired. And so I really am that little Marian of whom I have heard so many charming things!

How sweet! But, mother, you must be the very same to me as ever; and I must find room for two fathers now, instead of one."

"Yes, my dear, I feel sure you will not love us any the less for this great change."

"Mother, mother, never speak of that again! If it had not been for you, I might never have come to know anything about myself, to say nothing of all the dreadful things which might have happened. Oh, G.o.d is good!"

"He is indeed, dear! But you will be longing to go to your father."

"Yes," said the girl, with a quiver of shy delight; "what does he say?"

"My dear, he is thankful beyond measure."

"But can he bear to see me just yet?"

"He is preparing to receive you now. Come!"

"Cobbler" Horn had finished his tea, and was dressed, and sitting in an easy-chair in his bedroom. Those about him had feared that the coming effort would be too much for his strength. But there was no need for their apprehension. Joy was proving a splendid tonic. He sat calm and collected, awaiting the appearance of his child.

His friends were all around him. Mr. Durnford, Tommy Dudgeon, Mr.

Burton--all were there; and there, too, was Miss Jemima, no longer grim, but subdued almost to meekness.

Then it was done in a moment. The door opened, and Mrs. Burton entered, leading the young secretary by the hand. An instant later the girl ran forward, with a little cry, and flung herself into the outstretched arms of her waiting father.

For some seconds they remained thus. Then she gradually slipped down upon her knees, and let her head fall upon his breast, while her arms embraced him still, and his hand held closely to him her nestling face. Speech was impossible on either side. She was weeping the sweet tears of joy, while he vainly struggled to find utterance for his love.

One by one, their friends had stolen out of the room. Even Miss Jemima had been content to go. The memory of that chastened lady was very vivid to-night, and she felt humbled and subdued.

Observing the silence, "Cobbler" Horn looked up, and perceived that they were alone.