passed out of the room and down the stairs, a
wifeless husband and the father of a motherless bairn.

CHAPTER II.

AUNT JEMIMA.

It was Aunt Jemima who stepped into the vacant place of Marian's mother.
She was the only sister of "Cobbler" Horn, and, with the exception of a
rich uncle in America, from whom they never heard, and a wandering cousin,
a sad scapegrace, she was her brother's only living relative.

"Cobbler" Horn's sister was not the person to whom he would have chosen
to entrust the care of his motherless child, or the management of his
house. But he had no choice. He had no other relative whom he could summon
to his help, and Aunt Jemima was upon him before he had had time to think.
She was hurt that she had not been called to the death-bed of her
sister-in-law. But the omission rather increased, than diminished, the
promptitude with which she wrote to announce that she would come to her
bereaved brother without delay, and within a week she was duly installed
as mistress of his house.

"I thought I had better come at once," she said, on the night of her
arrival. "There's no telling what might have happened else."

"Very good of you, Jemima," was her brother's grave response.

And so it was. The woman meant well. She loved her brother sincerely
enough; and she had resolved to sacrifice, for his sake and his child's,
the peace and freedom of her life. But Aunt Jemima's love was wont to
show itself in unlovely ways. The fact of meaning well, though often a
good enough excuse for faulty doing, is not a satisfactory substitute
for the doing of that which is well. Your toleration of the rough
handling inflicted by the awkwardness of inconsiderate love does not
counteract its disastrous effects on the susceptible spirit and the
tender heart, especially if they be those of a child. It is, therefore,
not strange that, though "Cobbler" Horn loved his sister, he wished she
had stayed away. She was his elder by ten years; and she lived by herself,
on the interest of a small sum of money left to her by their father, at
his death, in a far off village, which was the family home.

"You'll be glad to know, Thomas," she said, "that I've made arrangements
to stay, now I'm here."

They were sitting by the fire, towards supper-time; and the attention of
"Cobbler" Horn was divided between what his sister was saying and certain
sounds of subdued sobbing whic