“How nice to think that I am like what that dear little Marian would have been! I wonder whether we should have been friends, if she had lived? Poor little thing, she’s almost sure to be dead! Though, perhaps not—who can tell? How queer that Mr. Horn should have lost a little girl, just as I must have been lost, and about the same time too! As for my being like her—perhaps, after all, that’s only a fancy of his. Well, at any rate, I must comfort and help him all I can. I can’t step into his daughter’s place exactly; but God has put it into my power to be to him, in many things, what little Marian would have been if he had not lost her; and for Christ’s sake——”
At this point, the young secretary’s thoughts became too sacred for prying eyes. Very soon she turned to her writing again. Half an hour later, the afternoon post arrived, bringing, amongst other letters, one or two which necessitated an immediate interview with “Cobbler” Horn. To trip up to her bedroom and dress herself for going out was the work of a very few moments; and in a short time she was entering the street where “Cobbler” Horn and his sister had lived so long, and whence the hapless little Marian had so heedlessly set out into the great world, on that bright May morning so many years ago.
As Miss Owen entered the narrow street, she involuntarily raised her hand to her forehead. The weird feeling of familiarity with the old house and its vicinity, of which she had already been conscious more than once, had crept over her again.
“How very strange!” she said to herself. “But there can’t be anything in it!”
As she approached the house, she became aware of the unconcealed scrutiny of a little man who was standing in the doorway of a shop on the other side of the street.
It was Tommy Dudgeon, who had just then come to the door to show a customer out, a civility which he was wont to bestow, if possible, upon every one who came to the shop. Lingering for a moment, in the hope of descrying another customer, he saw Miss Owen coming down the street. Tommy knew about “Cobbler” Horn’s secretary; but he had not, as yet, had a fair view of the young lady. He had not even thought much about her, and he did not suspect that it was she who was now coming along the street, until she passed into the old house. But, as he saw her now, with her black hair and dark glowing face, walking along the pavement in her decided way, he felt, as he afterwards said, “quite all-overish like.” It was, at first, the vaguest of impressions that he received. Then, as he gazed, he began to think that he had seen that figure before—though he continued to assure himself that he had not; and then, as Miss Owen drew nearer, he concluded that there must be some one of whom she reminded him—some one whom he had known long ago. Then, with a flash, came back to him the scene—never to be forgotten—on that long-ago May morning; and Tommy Dudgeon heaved a sigh, for he had obtained his clue.
“What a rude little man!” thought Miss Owen. “And yet he looks harmless enough. Why he must be one of the little twin shopkeepers of whom I have heard Mr. Horn speak. That will account for his interest in me.”
The absorption of the young secretary in the duties of her office, during her stay in the old house, no doubt fully accounted for the fact that she had not become more familiar with the appearance of Tommy Dudgeon.
By this time Tommy had withdrawn into his shop. But he continued to watch. Standing partly concealed behind some of the merchandise displayed in the shop window, he saw Miss Owen enter “Cobbler” Horn’s former abode, and then waited for her once more to emerge.
In ten minutes the young secretary again appeared. Pausing on the door-step, she looked this way and that, and then, with emphatic tread, stepped out in the very track of the little twinkling feet which Tommy had watched in their last departure on that ill-fated spring morning so long ago. The little man craned his neck to see the better through the window, and then, unable to restrain himself, he hurried to the doorway of the shop once more, and, with enlightened eyes, watched the figure of the girl till it passed out of sight. Then he turned, and rushed into the kitchen behind the shop. His brother was trying to put one of the twins to sleep by carrying it to and fro; his brother’s wife was making bread. He raised his hands.