“Cobbler” Horn started, and glanced towards the window. The morning was dull.
“Yes,” he said; “but we can’t command——” Then he perceived her meaning, and broke off with a smile. “To be sure; you are right, Miss Owen. It is wrong of me to be wearing such a gloomy face. But you see this kind of thing is all so new and strange to me; and you need not wonder that I am dismayed.”
“No,” replied the secretary, with just the faintest little touch of patronage in her tone; “it’s not surprising in your case. But I am not dismayed. Answering letters has always been my delight.”
“That’s well,” said “Cobbler” Horn, gravely; “And I think you will have to supply a large share of the ‘sunshine’ too, Miss Owen.”
“I’ll try,” she replied, simply, with a beaming smile; and she squared her shapely arms, and bent her dusky head, and set to work with a will, while “Cobbler” Horn, regarding her from the opposite side of the table, was divided between two mysteries, which were, how she could write so fast and well, and what it was which made him feel as if he had known her all his life?
Most of the letters contained applications for money. Some few were from the representatives of well-known philanthropic societies; many others were appeals on behalf of local charities or associations; and no small proportion were the applications of individuals, who either had great need, or were very cunning, or both.
The private appeals were of great variety. “Cobbler” Horn was amazed to find how many people were at the point of despair for want of just the help that he was able to give. It was past belief how large a number of persons he had the opportunity of saving from ruin, and with how small a sum of money, in each case, it might be done. What a manifold disclosure of human misery and despair those letters were, or seemed to be! Some of them, doubtless, had been written with breaking hearts, and punctuated with tears; but which?
“I had no idea there was so much trouble in the world!” cried “Cobbler” Horn, in dismay.
“Perhaps there is not quite so much as your letters seem to imply, sir,” suggested the secretary.
“You think not?” queried “Cobbler” Horn.