n himself was engaged just now in the duties of his calling,
in the little workshop behind the kitchen. The house was very small. The
kitchen and workshop were the only rooms downstairs, and above them were
three small chambers. The one in which the dying woman lay was over the
workshop, and the sound of her coughing came down with sharp distinctness
through the boarded floor, which was the only ceiling of the lower room.

"Cobbler" Horn knew that the death of his wife was probably a question of
a few hours at most. But he had promised that the boots on which he was at
work should be finished that night; and he had conscientiously withdrawn
from his wife's bedside that he might keep his word.

"Cobbler" Horn was a man of thirty or so. He was tall, and had somewhat
rugged features and clear steadfast eyes. He had crisp black hair, and a
shaven face. His complexion was dark, and his bare arms were almost as
brown as his leathern apron. His firmly set lips and corrugated brow, as
he bent now over his work, declared him to possess unusual power of will.
Indeed a strength of purpose such as belongs to few was required to hold
him to his present task. Meanwhile his chief misgiving was lest the noise
he was compelled to make should distress his dying wife; and it was
touching to see how he strove to modify, to the utmost degree which was
consistent with efficient workmanship, the tapping of the hammer on the
soles of the boots in hand.

Sorrowing without bitterness, "Cobbler" Horn had no rebellious thoughts.
He did not think himself ill-used, or ask petulantly what he had done that
such trouble should come to him. His case was very sad. Five years ago he
had married a beautiful young Christian girl. Twelve months later she had
borne their little dark-eyed daughter Marian. Two years thereafter a baby
boy had come and gone in a day; and, from that time, the mother had
drooped and faded, day by day, until, at length, the end was close at
hand. But "Cobbler" Horn was a Christian, and did not repine.

His task was finished at last, and, with a sigh of relief, he rose to his
feet. In that moment, he became aware of a tiny figure, standing in the
open doorway of the kitchen. It was that of a little four-year-old girl,
clad in a ruby-coloured dress, which matched to perfection her dark skin
and black hair. Her crimson cheeks were dashed with tears, and she looked
like a damask rose just sprinkled by a shower of rain. The light in her