"Well, cousin Jack," he said sadly, "it grieves me that our first meeting should be like this."

Cousin Jack, struggling with strong emotion, regarded his visitor with a fixed look. His mouth worked convulsively, and it was some moments before he could speak. At length he found utterance, in hollow tones, and with laboured breath.

"Have you--come all this way--across the water--on purpose to see me?"

"Yes," replied "Cobbler" Horn, simply, "of course I have. I wanted you to know that you are to have your honest share of our poor uncle"s money. And because I was determined to make sure that everything was done for you that could be done, and because I wished to do some little for you myself, I did not send, but came."

"Uncle"s money! Ah, yes, they told me about it. Well, you might have kept it all; and it"s very good of you--very. But money won"t be much use to me very long. It"s your coming that I take so kindly. You see, I hadn"t a friend; and it seemed so dreadful to die like that. Oh, it was good of you to come!"

In his wonder at the loving solicitude which had brought his cousin across the water to his dying bed, he almost seemed to undervalue the act of rare unselfishness by which so much money had been relinquished which might have been kept without fear of reproach. "Cobbler" Horn was not hurt by the seeming insensibility of his poor cousin to the great sacrifice he had made on his behalf. He did not desire, nor did he think that he deserved, any credit for what he had done. He had simply done his duty, as a matter of course. But he was much gratified that his poor cousin was so grateful for his coming. He sat down, with shining eyes, by the bedside, and took the wasted hand in his once more.

"Cousin," he asked, "have they cared for you in every way?"

"Yes, cousin, they have done what they could, thanks to your goodness!"

"Not at all. Your own money will pay the bill, you know."

For a moment cousin Jack was perplexed. His own money? He had not a cent.

in the world! He had actually forgotten that his cousin had made him rich.

"My own money?"

"Yes; the third part of what uncle left you know."

A slight flush mantled the hollow cheeks.

"Oh yes; what a dunce I am! I"m afraid I"m very ungrateful. But you see I seem to have done with such things. And yet the money is going to be of some use to me after all."

"Yes, that it is! It shall bring you comfort, ease, and, if possible, health and life."

The sick man shook his head.

"No," he said, wistfully; "a little of the first two, perhaps, but none of the last. I know I can"t live many weeks; and it"s no use deceiving myself with false hopes."

As "Cobbler" Horn looked at his cousin, he knew that he was not mistaken in his forecast.

"Cobbler" Horn did not remain long with his sick cousin at this time.

"There is one thing I should like," he said gravely, as he rose from his seat.

"There is not much that I can deny you," replied Jack; "what is it?"

He spoke without much show of interest.

"I should like to pray with you before I go."

Cousin Jack started, and again his pale face flushed.

"Certainly," he said, "if you wish it; but it will be of no use. Nothing is of any use now."

"The Golden Shoemaker" knelt down beside the bed, and prayed for his dying cousin, in his own simple, fervent way. Then, with a promise to come again on the following day, he pa.s.sed out of the room.

The prayer had been brief, and poor Jack had listened to it with heedless resignation; but it had struck a chord in his bruised heart which continued to vibrate long after his visitor was gone.

The next day "Cobbler" Horn found his cousin in a more serious mood. The poor young man told him something of his sad history; and "Cobbler" Horn spoke many earnest and faithful words. It became increasingly evident to "Cobbler" Horn, day by day, that life was ebbing fast within his cousin"s shattered frame; and he grew ever more anxious to bring the poor young fellow to the Saviour. But somehow the work seemed to drag. Jack would express a desire for salvation; and yet, somehow he seemed to be holding back. The hindrance was revealed, one day, by a stray question asked by "Cobbler" Horn.

"How about your will, Jack?"

Jack stared blankly.

"My will? Why should I make a will?"

"Because you have some money to leave."

"Ah! Whose will it be, if I die without a will?"

"Mine, I suppose," said "Cobbler" Horn reluctantly, after a moment"s thought.

"Well, then, let it be; nothing could be better."

"But is there no one to whom you would like to leave your money?"

Jack looked fixedly at the already beloved face of his cousin. Then his own face worked convulsively, and he covered it with his wasted fingers.

"Yes, yes," he said, in tones of distress; "there is some one. That is---- You are sure the money is really my own?"

He seemed all eagerness now to possess his share of the money.

"To be sure it is," responded "Cobbler" Horn. "That is quite settled."

"Well, then, there is a poor girl who would have given her life for mine; but I have behaved to her like a brute. She shall have every penny of it."

"Cobbler" Horn listened with intense interest, and at once gave expression to a burning apprehension which had instantly pierced his mind.

"Behaved like a brute!" he exclaimed. "Not in the worst way of all, I hope, Jack?"

"No, no, not that!" cried Jack, in horror.

"Thank G.o.d! But now, do you know where this poor girl is to be found?"

"I think so. Her name is Bertha Norman, and her parents live in a village only a few miles from here. When I gave her up, I believe she left her situation, here in the city, and went home with a broken heart."

"Well, Jack, your decision will meet with the approval of G.o.d. But, in the meantime, we must try to find this poor girl."

"If you only would!"

"Of course. But, with regard to the other matter--you would like to have the thing done at once?"

"The thing?"