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 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