"There," he said, "yer can read it for yerself."

"Cobbler" Horn took the paper, and glanced at its contents. He had seen in various newspapers, if not this, several similar accounts of the adventures of his child.

"Ah," he said, handing back to the man the greasy and crumpled paper, "tell me about it."

"Well, you knows that field where you found one of her shoes?"

"Yes."

"Well, we wos a sitting under the hedge, near that field, one morning, a-dining, when the kid came along. She stopped when she see'd us; and we invited her to go along with us, and somehow she seemed as if she didn't like to refuse. Arter that, we took her into the wood; and the old woman stripped off her clothes, and did her up like as she was when she was found. She'd lost one of her shoes, and I went back for it; but I couldn't find it nowheres. You may be sure as we got out o' these parts as fast as we could. We thought as the kid 'ud be a rare help in the cadging line.

But she was that stubborn and noisy, we soon got sorry as we'd ever taken on with her; and, if she hadn't took herself right away, one arternoon when we was having of our arter-dinner nap in a dry ditch, I do believe as the old woman 'ud ha' found some means o' putting her on one side."

Having finished his story, the dying tramp lay still for awhile, with his eyes closed.

"Cobbler" Horn looked down with pity upon the seamed and wrinkled face, from which almost all expression, except that of utter weariness, seemed to have been worn away.

Presently the dying man opened his eyes.

"That's all as I has to tell, master," he said faintly. "Do yer think, now, as yer could find it in yer heart to forgive a cove, like? It 'ud be none the worse for me, if yer could; nor, mayhap, for yourself neither.

I'se sorry I done it."

"Cobbler" Horn was deeply moved. But, as he now knew as much of what had happened to Marian as was likely ever to come to light, he could afford to let the matter rest; and already he found himself thinking more of the miserable case of the dying waif before him, than of the confession the poor creature had made. So he gave himself fully to the congenial task of trying to bring this miserable being, into a fitting frame of mind in which to meet the solemn change which he must so soon undergo.

"I forgive you freely," he said. "But won't you ask pardon of G.o.d? My forgiveness will be of little use without His."

The dying tramp looked up with a listless stare.

"It's wery good o' yer," he said, "to say as yer forgives me. But, as for G.o.d, I've never had much to do with Him, yer see; and it ain't likely as He'll mind me now. And I don't seem to care about it a deal."

"Cobbler" Horn was troubled, but not surprised. Breathing a prayer for Divine guidance and help, he set himself to make clear to this dark soul the way of life. In the simplest words at his command, he strove to make the wretched man understand and feel his need of a Saviour; and, when, at length, he quitted the chamber of death, he had good reason to hope that his efforts had not been altogether in vain.

Marian was profoundly interested to hear of the dying tramp and the story he had told, which latter agreed so well with her own vague remembrances, that she joined her father and aunt in regarding it as indicating what had been the actual course of events.

Little, now, remains to be told. Father and daughter united to render the vast wealth which G.o.d had intrusted to their charge a source of greater and yet greater blessing to increasing mult.i.tudes of needy and suffering people; and Aunt Jemima insisted on partic.i.p.ating in all their generous schemes.

Marian is still secretary; but, as she receives many offers of marriage, it is possible the post may become vacant even yet.

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