asked him what he was going to do.

"Mr. Horn, you won't leave the school now you are a rich man, will you?
Because I don't think we can do without you!"

"Cobbler" Horn was taken by surprise. The idea of leaving the school had
never occurred to his mind. For one moment, there was a troubled look in
his face.

"Who has put such nonsense into your head, laddie?"

"Oh, I've heard them talking about it. But I said I was sure they were
wrong."

"Why, of course they were, dear lad. Why should I leave the school?
Haven't I more reason than ever to work for the Lord?"

"Oh, I'm so glad!" And Willie went home with a bounding heart.

Meanwhile curiosity continued to be felt and expressed on every hand, as
to the course "the Golden Shoemaker" would actually pursue; and no little
surprise was created as, Sunday after Sunday, he was still seen sitting in
the midst of his class, as quietly and modestly as though he were still
the poor cobbler whom everybody had known so well.

Nor was he content simply to continue the work he had been accustomed to
do for Christ during his previous life. The larger leisure which his
wealth had brought, enabled him to multiply his religious and benevolent
activities to an almost unlimited extent. He went about doing good from
morning to night. He rejoiced to exercise for God the all but boundless
influence which his money enabled him to exert. His original plan--which
he persistently followed--of mending, free of charge, the boots and shoes
of the poorer portion of his former customers was but one amongst many
means by which he strove to benefit his necessitous fellowmen. He never
gave money for the relief of distress, without ascertaining whether there
was anything that he could do personally to help. He made it a point also
to offer spiritual consolation to those upon whom he bestowed temporal
benefactions. Hardly a day but found him in the abode of poverty, or in
the sick-room; and not one of his numberless opportunities of speaking
the words which "help and heal" did he let slip.

One evening, as he was passing through a poor part of the town, he came
into collision with a drunken man, who was in the act of entering a low
public-house. The wretched creature looked up into "Cobbler" Horn's face,
and "Cobbler" Horn recognised him as a formerly respectable neighbour of
his own.

"Richard," he cried, catching the man by the arm, "don't go in there!"

"Shall if I like, Thomas," said the m