had tried to do
his duty in the humble sphere of poverty; and he would attempt the same in
the infinitely more difficult position in which he was now placed.

Entering the house by the back way, he paused and lingered regretfully for
a moment at the kitchen door. One of the maids perceived his hesitation,
and wondered if master was of the interfering kind. He dispelled her alarm
by passing slowly on.

After supper, in the dining-room, Miss Jemima handed the old family Bible
to her brother, and he took it with a loving grasp. Here, at least, was a
part of the old life still.

"Shall I ring for the servants?" asked Miss Jemima.

"By all means," said her brother, with a slight start.

Miss Jemima touched the electric bell, with the air of one who had been
in the habit of ringing for servants all her life. In quick response, the
door was opened; and the maids, the coachman, and the boy, who had all
been well schooled by Miss Jemima, filed gravely in.

The ordeal through which "Cobbler" Horn had now to pass was very unlike
the homely family prayer of the old life. He performed his task, however,
with a simplicity and fervour with which the domestics were duly
impressed; and when it was over he made them a genial yet dignified little
speech, and wished them all a hearty good night.

"Brother," Miss Jemima ventured to remark, when the servants were gone, "I
am afraid you lean too much to the side of familiarity with the servants."

"Sister," was the mildly sarcastic response, "you are quite able to adjust
the balance."

Amongst the few things which were transferred from the old house to the
new, was a small tin trunk, the conveyance of which Miss Jemima was at
great pains personally to superintend. It contained the tiny wardrobe of
the long lost child, which the sorrowing, and still self-accusing, lady
had continued to preserve.

It is doubtful whether "Cobbler" Horn was aware of his sister's pathetic
hoard; but there were two mementos of his lost darling which he himself
preserved. For the custody of papers, deeds, and other valuables, he had
placed in the room set apart as his office, a brand new safe. In one of
its most secure recesses he deposited, with gentle care, a tiny parcel
done up in much soft paper. It contained a mud-soiled print bonnet-string,
and a little dust-stained shoe.

"They will never be of any more use to her," he had said to himself; "but
they may help to find her some day."