The Golden Shoemaker | Page 2

borne their little dark-eyed daughter Marian. Two years thereafter a baby boy had come and gone in a day; and, from that time, the mother had drooped and faded, day by day, until, at length, the end was close at hand. But "Cobbler" Horn was a Christian, and did not repine.
His task was finished at last, and, with a sigh of relief, he rose to his feet. In that moment, he became aware of a tiny figure, standing in the open doorway of the kitchen. It was that of a little four-year-old girl, clad in a ruby-coloured dress, which matched to perfection her dark skin and black hair. Her crimson cheeks were dashed with tears, and she looked like a damask rose just sprinkled by a shower of rain. The light in her dark eyes, which glistened with intense excitement beneath her jet-black hair, indicated that her tears were those of indignation rather than grief. How long she had been standing there he could not tell; but, as soon as she saw that her father had finished his work, little Marian--for she it was--darted forward, and throwing her arms around his neck, with a sob, let her small dusky head fall upon the polished breast-piece of his leathern apron.
"What's amiss with daddy's poppet?" asked the father tenderly, as he clasped the quivering little form more closely to his breast.
The only answer was a convulsive movement of the little body within his arms.
"Come, darling, tell daddy." Strange strugglings continued within the strong, encircling arms. This little girl of four had as strong a will as her father; and she was conquering her turbulent emotions, that she might be able to answer his questions. In a moment she broke away from his clasp, and, dashing the tears from her eyes with her little brown hands, stood before him with glowing face and quivering lip.
"Me 'ant to see mammy!" she cried--the child was unusually slow of speech for her age. "Dey 'on't 'et Ma-an do upstairs."
"Cobbler" Horn took the child upon his knee, and gently stroked the small dusky head.
"Mammy is very ill, Marian," he said gently.
"Me 'ant to see mammy," was the emphatic response.
"By and bye, darling," replied the father huskily.
"What 'oo going to c'y for, daddy?" demanded the child, looking up hastily into her father's face. "Poor daddy!" she continued, stroking his cheek with her small brown hand, "Isn't 'oo very well?"
"I'm not going to cry, darling," said the father, bowing his head over his child, and taking into his strong hand the little fingers which still rested against his face. "You don't understand, my poor child!"
There followed a brief pause.
"P'ease, daddy," pleaded Marian presently, "Ma-an must see mammy. Dere's such pitty fings in se shops, and me 'ants to do with mammy to see dem--in morning."
The shops were already displaying their Christmas decorations.
Marian's father gave a great gasp.
"Marian shall see mammy now," he said solemnly, as he rose from his stool still holding the child to his breast.
"I'se so glad!" and she gave a little jump in his arms. "Good daddy!"
"But father's little poppet must be quiet, and not talk, or cry."
"No," said Marian with childhood's readiness to make a required promise.
The child had not seen her mother since the previous day, and the altered face upon the pillow was so strange to her, that she half turned away, as though to hide her face upon her father's shoulder.
The gleaming eyes of the dying mother were turned wistfully towards her child.
"See, poppet; look at mammy!" urged the father, turning the little face towards the bed.
"Mother's darling!"
There was less change in the mother's voice than in her face; and the next moment the little dark head lay on the pillow, and the tiny, nut-brown hand was stroking the hollow cheek of the dying woman.
"'oo is my mammy, isn't 'oo?"
"Yes, darling; kiss mammy good-bye," was the heart-breaking answer.
"Me tiss 'oo," said the child, suiting the action to the word; "but not dood-bye. Me see 'oo aden. Mammy, se shops is so bootiful! Will 'oo take Ma-an to see dem? 'nother day, yes 'nother day."
"Daddy will take Marian to see the shops," said the dying mother, in labouring tones. "Mammy going to Jesus. Jesus will take care of mother's little lamb."
The mother's lips were pressed in a last lingering kiss upon the face of her child, and then Marian was carried downstairs.
When the child was gone, "Cobbler" Horn sat down by the bedside, and took and held the wasted hand of his wife. It was evident that the end was coming fast; and urgent indeed must be the summons which would draw him now from the side of his dying wife. Hour after hour he sat waiting for the great change. As the night crept on, he watched the deepening shadow on the