After supper, in the dining-room, Miss Jemima handed the old family Bible to her brother, and he took it with a loving grasp. Here, at least, was a part of the old life still.
“Shall I ring for the servants?” asked Miss Jemima.
“By all means,” said her brother, with a slight start.
Miss Jemima touched the electric bell, with the air of one who had been in the habit of ringing for servants all her life. In quick response, the door was opened; and the maids, the coachman, and the boy, who had all been well schooled by Miss Jemima, filed gravely in.
The ordeal through which “Cobbler” Horn had now to pass was very unlike the homely family prayer of the old life. He performed his task, however, with a simplicity and fervour with which the domestics were duly impressed; and when it was over he made them a genial yet dignified little speech, and wished them all a hearty good night.
“Brother,” Miss Jemima ventured to remark, when the servants were gone, “I am afraid you lean too much to the side of familiarity with the servants.”
“Sister,” was the mildly sarcastic response, “you are quite able to adjust the balance.”
Amongst the few things which were transferred from the old house to the new, was a small tin trunk, the conveyance of which Miss Jemima was at great pains personally to superintend. It contained the tiny wardrobe of the long lost child, which the sorrowing, and still self-accusing, lady had continued to preserve.
It is doubtful whether “Cobbler” Horn was aware of his sister’s pathetic hoard; but there were two mementos of his lost darling which he himself preserved. For the custody of papers, deeds, and other valuables, he had placed in the room set apart as his office, a brand new safe. In one of its most secure recesses he deposited, with gentle care, a tiny parcel done up in much soft paper. It contained a mud-soiled print bonnet-string, and a little dust-stained shoe.
“They will never be of any more use to her,” he had said to himself; “but they may help to find her some day.”