The Golden Shoemaker | Page 9

the child would not come back at all.
"Why shouldn't she?" he asked. "I've known her stay away longer than this, and there's no occasion for alarm."
So saying, he addressed himself to his dinner with his usual gusto; but Miss Jemima had no appetite, and the show of eating that she made was but a poor pretence.
"Don't be so much alarmed, Jemima," said her brother, making progress with his dinner. "I've no doubt the child is amongst her friends. By and bye I'll go out and hunt her up."
He still had no fear that his little daughter would not soon return. He accordingly finished his dinner with his usual deliberation; and it was not until he had completed one or two urgent pieces of work, that he, at last, put on his hat and coat, and taking his stout blackthorn stick, set out in search of his missing child.
All the weary afternoon, he went from house to house, amongst friends and friendly neighbours; but no one had seen Marian, or knew anything as to her whereabouts. Every now and then he returned home, to see if the child had come back. But each time he found only Aunt Jemima, sitting before the fire like an image of grim despair. She would look up with fierce eagerness, on his entrance, and drop her gaze again with a gasp when she saw that he was alone.
Long before the afternoon was over the father's unconcern had given place to serious alarm. He was not greatly surprised that he had failed to find Marian in the house of any of their friends; but he wondered that she had not yet come home of her own accord. While he would not, even now, believe that Marian had run away, he was compelled to admit that she was lost. But what was that? He had turned once more towards home, and had entered his own street, and there was Marian, playing with some other children, on the pavement, just in front. Her back was towards him, as she bent down over her play. But there was no mistaking that thick, night-black hair, and the little plump brown legs which peeped out beneath the small frock. With the promptitude of absolute certainty, he put out his strong hands and lifted the child from the ground. Then he uttered a cry. It was not Marian after all! He put her down--he almost let her drop, and the startled child began to cry. "Cobbler" Horn hastily pushed a penny into her hand, and strode on. He staggered like one who has received a blow. It seemed almost as if he had actually had his little one in his arms, and she had slipped away again.
When he reached home, his sister was still sitting in grim silence, before the now fireless grate. On her brother's entrance, she looked up as aforetime. "Cobbler" Horn sank despondently into a chair.
"Nowhere to be found!" he said, with a deep sigh.
"We must have the tea ready," he added, as though at the dictate of a sudden thought.
"Ah, you are tired, and hungry."
Aunt Jemima hesitated on the last word. Could her brother be hungry? She thought she would never wish to taste food again.
"No," he said quickly; "but Marian will want her tea. Put the dinner away. It is cold, Jemima."
"I put her plate in the oven," said Aunt Jemima, in a hollow voice, as she rose from her seat.
"Ah!" gasped the father. The little plate had become hot and cold again, and its contents were quite dried up. Aunt Jemima put the plate upon the oven-top; and then turned, and looked conscience-stricken into her brother's face. Severe towards herself, as towards others, she unflinchingly acknowledged her great fault.
"Brother, your child is gone; and I have driven her away."
She lifted her hands on either side of her head, and gently swayed herself to and fro once--a grim gesture of despair.
"I do not ask you to forgive me. It is not to be expected of you--unless she comes back again. If she does not, I shall never forgive myself."
"Jemima," said "Cobbler" Horn, rising from his seat, and placing his hand lightly on her shoulder, "You are too severe with yourself. That the child is lost is evident enough; but surely she may be found! I will go to the police authorities: they will help us."
He turned to the door, but paused with his hand on the latch.
"Jemima," he said, gently, "you must not talk about my not forgiving you. I would try to forgive my greatest enemy, much more my own sister, who has but done what she believed to be best."
The authorities at the police-station did what they could. Messages were sent to every police centre in the town; and very soon every policeman on his