“Well, well!” said “the Golden Shoemaker” softly.
“And listen to me,” resumed Miss Jemima. “I am beginning to recollect, too. Marian’s hair was very stubborn; and there were two or three tufts at the back which always would stand up, like black feathers.”
“I remember that very well,” said Mrs. Burton, with a smile.
“Of course,” agreed her husband; “and many a joke we used to have about it. I called her my little blackbird.”
“And then,” continued Miss Jemima, “there was another thing. A few days before the child’s disappearance, she fell down and hurt her knee; and there were two scars, one on the knee, and another just below.”
“Ah,” said Mrs. Burton, “I remember those scars. Don’t you, John?”
“Yes; and I used to tell her she was an old soldier, and had been in the wars.”
“So you did; and—dear me, how old memories are beginning to come back!—she talked a great deal, not only of her ‘daddy,’ but of ‘Aunt ’Mima.’ I wonder I didn’t think of that before. Perhaps, ma’am——”
“That’s me!” cried Miss Jemima. “My name’s Jemima; and ‘Aunt ’Mima’ was what she always called me. There, Thomas, do you want any further proof?”
“Cobbler” Horn was lying with his hands over his face, and the bed was shaking with his convulsive efforts to repress his strong emotion. Fear had impelled him to withstand his growing conviction that his long-lost child had been restored to him—fear of the consequences of a mistake, both to himself, and to the bright young girl whom he had already learnt to love as though she were indeed his child. But now, one after another, his doubts had been beaten down. He had listened eagerly to every word that had been spoken around his bed, and conviction had taken absolute possession of his mind. Yet, for the moment, the shock of his great joy seemed almost more than his weakened nerves could bear.