ng of a large hand-bell on the lawn announced
that dinner was ready. At the four long tables which ran the whole length
of the marquee there was room for all, and very soon every seat was
occupied. The grace was announced by Mr. Durnford, and sung by the people,
with a heartiness which might have been expected of hungry villagers, who
had been summoned to an unaccustomed and sumptuous feast. Then the carvers
got to work, and, as the waiters carried round the laden plates,
comparative quiet reigned; but, when the plates began to reach the guests,
the clatter of crockery, the rattle of knives and forks, and the babel of
voices, made such a festive hubbub as was grateful to the ear.

After dinner, there was speech-making and merriment; and then the people
left the tent, and dispersed about the grounds. While the former part of
this process was in progress, Miss Owen heard a fragment of conversation
which caused her to tingle to her finger-tips. She had just moved towards
one of the tables for the purpose of helping an old woman to rise from her
seat, and her presence was not perceived by the speakers, whose faces were
turned the other way. They were two village gossips, a middle-aged woman
and a younger one.

"Is she his daughter?" were the words that fell upon the young secretary's
ears, spoken by the elder woman in a stage whisper.

"No," replied the other, in a similar tone. "He never had but one
child--her as was lost. This one's the secretary, or some such."

"Well, I do say as she'd pass for his own daughter anywhere."

Miss Owen was not nervous; but her heart beat tumultuously at the thoughts
which this whispered colloquy suggested to her mind. She placed her hand
upon the table to steady herself, as the two women, all unconscious of the
effect of their gossiping words, moved slowly away.

"The Golden Shoemaker" and his friends arrived at Cottonborough late that
night. A carriage was waiting for them at the station; and, having said
"good night" to Mr. Durnford and Tommy Dudgeon, they were soon driven
home. They were a quiet--almost silent--party. The events of the day had
supplied them with much food for thought. The image of his little lost
Marian presented itself vividly to the mind of "Cobbler" Horn to-night.
Miss Jemima's thoughts dwelt on what was her one tender memory--that of
the tiny, dark-eyed damsel who had so mysteriously vanished from the
sphere of her authority so long ago.

And Miss Owen? Well,