Observing the silence, “Cobbler” Horn looked up, and perceived that they were alone.
“They have all gone, Marian,” he said, gently. “Won’t you look up, and let father see your face?”
She lifted her face, bedewed yet radiant; and he took it tenderly between his hands.
“It is indeed the face of my little Marian,” he said, fondly. “How blind I must have been!”
He gazed long and lovingly—feasting his eyes upon the brown, glowing face, in every feature of which he could now trace so plainly those of his little Marian of days gone by. The hope which he had never quite relinquished was fulfilled at last! His gracious Lord had justified his confidence, as, indeed, there had never been any reason to doubt that He would.
“You feel quite sure about it, my dear; don’t you?” he asked.
“Yes, father dear,” she answered, in a thoughtful, contented tone. “There are so many things that help to make me sure.”
Then she told him of her strange feeling of familiarity with the old house and street. She spoke of the little shoes, and of her having seen the one in the safe. She told him what she had overheard in the tent at Daisy Lane about her resemblance to himself.
“And besides,” she concluded, “after all that——mother has told me, how can I doubt? But now, daddy—I may call you that, mayn’t I?”
“The Golden Shoemaker” pressed convulsively the little hand he held.