“Thomas!”
“Yes, Jemima, I am a rich man, it seems. Read on, and say what you think;” and “Cobbler” Horn rose from his seat, and went quietly into his workshop.
Miss Jemima devoured her brother’s letter with greedy eyes. It was from a firm of London lawyers, and contained a brief announcement that the rich uncle of “Cobbler” Horn had died, in America, without a will; that “Cobbler” Horn was the lawful owner of all his wealth; and that they, the lawyers, awaited “Cobbler” Horn’s commands. Would he call upon them at their office in London, or should they attend him at his private, or any other, address? In the meantime, he would oblige by drawing upon them for any amount of money he might require.
With what breath she had left Miss Jemima hurried into her brother’s workshop.
“Thomas,” she demanded, flourishing the letter in his face, “what are you going to do?”
“Think,” he answered concisely, without looking up from the hob-nailed boot between his knees, “and pray, and get on with my work.”
“But this letter requires an answer! And,” with a glance of disgust around the rough shop with its signs of toil, “you are a rich man now, Thomas.”
“That,” was the quiet reply, “does not alter the fact that I have half-a-dozen pairs of boots to mend, and two of them are promised for dinner-time. Leave me, now, Jemima, and we’ll talk the matter over this evening. I don’t suppose the gentlemen will be in a hurry.”
Miss Jemima withdrew as she was bidden, thinking that there was one gentleman, at least, who was not in a hurry.
All day long “Cobbler” Horn quietly worked on in the usual way. He did this partly because he loved his work and was loath to give it up, partly because he had so much work on hand, and partly that he might think and pray, which he could always do best on his cobbler’s stool. He found it difficult to realize what had taken place; but when, at last, he fairly grasped the fact that he was now a rich man, mingled feelings of joy and dread filled his breast. There was little taint of selfishness in “Cobbler” Horn’s joy. It was no gratification to him to be relieved of the necessity to work. Nor was he fascinated with the prospect of luxury. His joy arose chiefly from the thought of the amount of good he would now be able to do. It was impossible that he should form anything like an adequate conception of the vast power for good which had been placed in his hands. The boundless ability to benefit his fellowmen with which he had been so suddenly endowed could not be realized in the first moments of his great surprise, yet he perceived faint glimmerings of possibilities of benevolence beyond his largest-hearted dreams.