sick-chamber, stood before him in the middle
of the room, and, taking his big hand, gently lifted it, with both her
tiny white ones, to her lips.

"In the presence of my dear Jack," she said, "I thank you. But, dear
friend, I think you should take the money back when he is gone."

"My dear young lady," protested "Cobbler" Horn, with uplifted hand, "how
can I take it, seeing it is not mine? But," he added softly, "we will not
speak of it now."

True to her promise, Bertha did not leave her beloved Jack until the end;
and the regular attendants, supplied by the house, so far from regarding
her presence as an intrusion, were easily induced to look upon her as one
of themselves. "Cobbler" Horn was rarely absent during the day-time; and,
in the brief remaining space of poor Jack's chequered life, his gentle
lover, and his high-souled cousin, had the great joy of leading him to
entertain a genuine trust in the Saviour. The end came so suddenly, that
they had no time for parting words; but they had good hope, as they
reverently closed his eyes. When all was over, and he had been laid to
rest in the cemetery, "Cobbler" Horn took Bertha back to her village home,
and then set his face once more towards England, bearing in his heart a
chastened memory, and the image of a sweet, pensive face.

CHAPTER XXVI.

HOME AGAIN.

It was with feelings of deep gratitude to God that "Cobbler" Horn set foot
once more upon his native land. After having been away no longer than four
weeks, he landed at Liverpool on a bright winter's morning, and, taking an
early train, reached Cottonborough about mid-day. He had telegraphed the
time of his arrival, and Bounder, the coachman, was at the station to
meet him with the dog-cart. He had sent his message for the purpose of
preparing his sister for his arrival; for he knew she preferred not to be
taken unawares by such events. If he had given the matter a thought, he
would have told them not to send to meet him at the station. He would
much rather have walked, than ridden, a distance so short. And then he
shrank, at all times, from the idea of making a public parade of his
newly-acquired state. And, if all the truth must be told, he was--not
awed, but mildly irritated, by the imposing presence, and reproachful
civility, of the ideal Bounder.

Here was Bounder now, with his dignified salute. "Cobbler" Horn yearned to
give the man a he