“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.