A LITTLE SHOE.
That which happens now and then occurred in the case of "Cobbler" Horn.
The doctors proved to be mistaken; and thanks to a strong and unimpaired
constitution, and to the blessing of God on efficient nursing and medical
skill, "the Golden Shoemaker" survived the crisis of his illness, and
commenced a steady return to health and strength.
Great was the joy on every side. But, perhaps, the person who rejoiced
most was Miss Owen. Not even the satisfaction of Miss Jemima at the
ultimate announcement of the doctors, that their patient might now do
well, was greater than was that of the young secretary. Miss Owen rejoiced
for very special reasons of her own. During the convalescence of "Cobbler"
Horn, the young secretary was with him very much. He was glad to have her
in his room; and, as his strength returned, he talked to her often about
herself. He seemed anxious to know all she could tell him of her early
life.
"Sit down here, by the bed," he would say eagerly, taking her plump, brown
wrist in his wasted fingers, "and tell me about yourself."
She would obey him, laughing gently, less at the nature of the request,
than at the eagerness with which it was made.
"Now begin," he said one evening, for the twentieth time, settling himself
beneath the bed-clothes to listen, as though he had never heard the story
before; "and mind you don't leave anything out."
"Well," she commenced, "I was a little wandering mite, with hardly any
clothes and only one shoe. I was----"
His hand was on her arm in an instant. This was the first time she had
mentioned the fact that, when she was found by the friends by whom she had
been brought up, one of her feet was without a shoe.
"Only one shoe, did you say?" asked "Cobbler" Horn, in tremulous tones.
"Yes," she replied, not suspecting the tumult of thoughts her simple
statement had excited in his mind.
In truth, her statement had agitated her listener in no slight degree. He
did not, as yet, fully perceive its significance. But the coincidence was
so very strange! One shoe! Only one shoe! His little Marian had lost one
of her shoes when she strayed away. A wonderful coincidence, indeed!
"I was very dirty, and my clothes were torn," resumed Miss Owen; "and I
was altogether a very forlorn little thing, I have no doubt. I don't
remember much about it, myself, you know; but Mrs. Burton has often told
me that I was crying at the time, and appeared to have been so engaged for
some time. It was one evening in June, and getting dusk. Mr. and Mrs.
Burton had been for a walk in the country, and were returning home, when
they came upon me, walking very slowly, poking my fists into my eyes, and
crying, as I said. When they asked me what was the matter, I couldn't tell
them much. I seemed to be trying to say something about a 'bad woman,' and
my 'daddy.' They couldn't even make out, with certainty, what I said my
name was. Little as you might think it, Mr. Horn. I was a very bad talker
in those days. 'Mary Ann Owen' was what my kind friends thought I called
myself; and 'Mary Ann Owen' I have been ever since.
"Well, these dear people took me home; and, after they had washed me, and
found some clothes for me which had belonged to a little girl they had
lost--their only child--they gave me a good basin of bread and milk, and
put me to bed.
"The next day they tried to get me to tell them something more, but it was
no use; and as I couldn't tell them where I lived, and they didn't even
feel sure about my name, they naturally felt themselves at a loss. But I
don't think they were much troubled about that; for I believe they were
quite prepared to keep me as their own child. You see they had lost a
little one; and there was a vacant place that I expect they thought I
might fill. They did, at first, try to find out who I was. But they
altogether failed; and so, without more ado, they just made me their own
little girl. They taught me to call them 'father' and 'mother'; and they
have always been so good and kind!"
Though several points in Miss Owen's story had touched him keenly,
"Cobbler" Horn quickly regained his composure after the first start of
surprise. Feeling himself too weak to do battle with agitating thoughts,
he put aside, for the time, the importunate questions which besieged his
mind.
"Thank you," he said quietly, when the narrative was finished. "To-morrow
we will talk about it all again. I think I can go to sleep now. But will
you first, please, read a little from the dear old book."
The young girl reached a Bible which stood always on a table by the
bedside, and, turning to one of his favourite places, read, in her sweet
clear tones, words of comfort and strength. Then she bade him "good
night," and moved towards the door. But he called her back.
"Will you take these letters?" he said, with his hand on a bundle of
letters which lay on the table at his side; "and put them into the safe."
They were letters of importance, to which he had been giving, during the
evening, such attention as he was able. During his illness, he had allowed
his secretary to keep the key of the safe.
Miss Owen took the letters, and went downstairs. Going first into the
dining-room, she told Miss Jemima that "Cobbler" Horn seemed likely to go
to sleep, and then proceeded to the office. Without delay, she unlocked
the safe, and was in the act of depositing the bundle of letters in its
place, when, from a recess at the back, a small tissue-paper parcel, which
she had never previously observed, fell down to the front, and became
partially undone. As she picked it up, intending to restore it to the
place from which it had fallen, her elbow struck the side of the safe, and
the parcel was jerked out of her hand. In trying to save it, she retained
in her grasp a corner of the paper, which unfolded itself, and there fell
out upon the floor a little child's shoe, around which was wrapped a strip
of stained and faded pink print. At a sight so unexpected she uttered a
cry. Then she picked up the little shoe, and, having released it from its
bandage, turned it over and over in her hands. Next she gave her attention
to the piece of print. She was utterly dazed. Suddenly the full meaning of
her discovery flashed upon her mind. She dropped the simple articles by
which she had been so deeply moved, and, covering her face with her hands,
burst into a paroxysm of joyous tears. But her agitation was brief.
Hastily drying her eyes, she picked up the little shoe. No need to wait
till she had compared it with the one which lay in the corner of her box!
The image of the latter was imprinted on her mind with the exactness of a
photograph, with its every wrinkle and spot, and every slash it had
received from that unknown, wanton hand. She _could_ compare the two
shoes here and now, as exactly as though she actually saw them side by
side. Yes, this little shoe was indeed the fellow of her own! And the
strip of print--what was it but her missing bonnet-string? She had found
what she had so often longed to find. And she herself was--yes, why should
she hesitate to say it?--the little Marian of whom she had so often heard!
How wonderful it was! Here was truth stranger than fiction, indeed! She
laughed--a gentle, trilling laugh, low and sweet. But ah, she could not
tell him! She could not say to him, "I am the daughter you lost so long
ago. I have seen in your safe the fellow of the shoe I wore when I was
found by my kind friends." Of course it would convince him; but she could
not say it. She must wait until he found out the truth for himself. But
would he ever find it out? She hoped and thought he would. Had he not
marked what she said about her having had on only one shoe when she was
found? And would not that lead him to think and enquire? Meanwhile, she
herself knew the wonderful truth; and she could afford to wait. It would
all come right, of course it would; any other thought was too ridiculous
to be entertained.
Very quietly, and with almost reverent fingers, she wound the faded
bonnet-string once more around the little shoe, and wrapped them up again
in the much-crumpled paper.
"How often must he have unfolded it!" was the thought that nestled in her
heart, as she replaced the precious parcel in the safe, and closed and
locked the ponderous door.
From the office, the young secretary went directly to her own room. To
open her trunk, and plunge her hand down into the corner where lay her own
little parcel of relics, was the work of a moment. There was certainly no
room for doubt. The little, stout, leather shoe which she had treasured so
long was the fellow of the one she had just seen in the safe downstairs.
There was the very same curve of the sole, made by the pressure of the
little foot--her own, and similar inequalities in the upper part. With a
sudden movement, she lifted the tiny shoe to her lips. And here was her
funny old sun-bonnet! How often she had wondered what had become of its
other string! Last of all, she took up the little chemise, which completed
her simple store of relics, and gazed intently upon the red letters with
which it was marked. All uncertainty as to their meaning was gone. What
could "M.H." stand for but "Marian Horn"? With a grateful heart, she
rolled up her treasures, and, having consigned them once more to their
place in the trunk, went downstairs. Miss Jemima was indisposed; and,
having seen the nurse duly installed in the sick-room, she had retired
for the night. Accordingly, Miss Owen, much to her relief, had supper
by herself. She felt that she did not wish to talk to any one just at
present, and to Miss Jemima least of all.
When the young secretary fell asleep that night, she was lulled with the
sweetness of the thought that she had not only found her father, but had
discovered him in the person of the best man she had ever known. The
discovery of her father might have proved a bitter disappointment; it
was actually such as to fill her with unspeakable gratitude. She did not
greatly regret that she had not found her mother, as well as her father.
It would probably have caused her real grief, if any one had appeared to
claim the place in her heart which was held by the woman from whom she had
always received, in a peculiar degree, a mother's love and a mother's
care. One could find room for any number of fathers--provided they were
worthy. But a mother!--her place was sacred; there could be no sharing of
her throne.