“He is indeed, dear! But you will be longing to go to your father.”
“Yes,” said the girl, with a quiver of shy delight; “what does he say?”
“My dear, he is thankful beyond measure.”
“But can he bear to see me just yet?”
“He is preparing to receive you now. Come!”
“Cobbler” Horn had finished his tea, and was dressed, and sitting in an easy-chair in his bedroom. Those about him had feared that the coming effort would be too much for his strength. But there was no need for their apprehension. Joy was proving a splendid tonic. He sat calm and collected, awaiting the appearance of his child.
His friends were all around him. Mr. Durnford, Tommy Dudgeon, Mr. Burton—all were there; and there, too, was Miss Jemima, no longer grim, but subdued almost to meekness.
Then it was done in a moment. The door opened, and Mrs. Burton entered, leading the young secretary by the hand. An instant later the girl ran forward, with a little cry, and flung herself into the outstretched arms of her waiting father.
For some seconds they remained thus. Then she gradually slipped down upon her knees, and let her head fall upon his breast, while her arms embraced him still, and his hand held closely to him her nestling face. Speech was impossible on either side. She was weeping the sweet tears of joy, while he vainly struggled to find utterance for his love.
One by one, their friends had stolen out of the room. Even Miss Jemima had been content to go. The memory of that chastened lady was very vivid to-night, and she felt humbled and subdued.