The Golden Shoemaker | Page 3

beloved face, and marked the gathering signs which heralded the brief triumph of the king of terrors. There was but little talk. It could not be otherwise; for, every moment, utterance became more difficult to the dying wife. A simple, and affectionate question and answer passed now and then between the two. At infrequent intervals expressions of spiritual confidence were uttered by the dying wife; and these were varied with a few calmly-spoken directions about the child. From the husband came, now and then, words of tender encouragement, mingled with morsels of consolation from the good old Book, with, ever and anon, a whispered prayer.
The night had almost passed when the end came. The light of the grey December dawn was struggling feebly through the lattice, when the young wife and mother, whose days had been so few, died, with a smile upon her face; and "Cobbler" Horn passed out of the room and down the stairs, a wifeless husband and the father of a motherless bairn.
CHAPTER II.
AUNT JEMIMA.
It was Aunt Jemima who stepped into the vacant place of Marian's mother. She was the only sister of "Cobbler" Horn, and, with the exception of a rich uncle in America, from whom they never heard, and a wandering cousin, a sad scapegrace, she was her brother's only living relative.
"Cobbler" Horn's sister was not the person to whom he would have chosen to entrust the care of his motherless child, or the management of his house. But he had no choice. He had no other relative whom he could summon to his help, and Aunt Jemima was upon him before he had had time to think. She was hurt that she had not been called to the death-bed of her sister-in-law. But the omission rather increased, than diminished, the promptitude with which she wrote to announce that she would come to her bereaved brother without delay, and within a week she was duly installed as mistress of his house.
"I thought I had better come at once," she said, on the night of her arrival. "There's no telling what might have happened else."
"Very good of you, Jemima," was her brother's grave response.
And so it was. The woman meant well. She loved her brother sincerely enough; and she had resolved to sacrifice, for his sake and his child's, the peace and freedom of her life. But Aunt Jemima's love was wont to show itself in unlovely ways. The fact of meaning well, though often a good enough excuse for faulty doing, is not a satisfactory substitute for the doing of that which is well. Your toleration of the rough handling inflicted by the awkwardness of inconsiderate love does not counteract its disastrous effects on the susceptible spirit and the tender heart, especially if they be those of a child. It is, therefore, not strange that, though "Cobbler" Horn loved his sister, he wished she had stayed away. She was his elder by ten years; and she lived by herself, on the interest of a small sum of money left to her by their father, at his death, in a far off village, which was the family home.
"You'll be glad to know, Thomas," she said, "that I've made arrangements to stay, now I'm here."
They were sitting by the fire, towards supper-time; and the attention of "Cobbler" Horn was divided between what his sister was saying and certain sounds of subdued sobbing which proceeded from upstairs. Very early in the evening Aunt Jemima had unceremoniously packed Marian off to bed, and the tiny child was taking a long time to cry herself to sleep in the cold, dark room.
"Never mind the child," said Aunt Jemima sharply, as she observed her brother's restless glances towards the staircase door; "on no account must she be allowed to have her own way. It was high time she went to bed; and she'll soon be fast asleep."
"Yes, Jemima," said the troubled father; "but I wish you had been more gentle with the child."
"Fiddlesticks!" was the contemptuous exclamation of Aunt Jemima, as she regarded her brother severely through her spectacles; and she added, "Since you have wished me to take the oversight of your house and child, you must leave me to manage them as I think fit."
"Cobbler" Horn did not venture to remind his sister that he had not expressed any such wish. Being so much his senior, and having at least as strong a will as his own, Jemima Horn had always maintained a certain predominance over her brother, and her ascendancy still prevailed to some extent. Making no further reference to the child, he sat listening by turns to a prolonged exposition of his sister's views on the management of children, and to the continued wailings which floated down from the room above, until, at length, as a