In due course "Cobbler" Horn, Miss Jemima, the young secretary, Tommy Dudgeon--to whom had been given a very pressing invitation to join the party,--and Mr. Durnford, alighted from the train at the station which served for Daisy Lane, and were met by Mr. Gray. "Well, Mr. Gray," said "the Golden Shoemaker," who was in a buoyant, and almost boisterous mood, "How are things looking?" "Everything promises well, sir," replied the agent, who was beaming with pleasure. "The arrangements are all complete; and everybody will be there--that is, with the exception of the vicar. Save his refusal to be present, there has not, thus far, been a single hitch." "I wish," said "Cobbler" Horn, "that we could have got the poor man to come--for his own sake, I mean." "Yes, sir; he will do himself no good. It's well they're not all like that." Mr. Gray had brought his own dog-cart for the gentlemen; and he had provided for the ladies a comfortable basket-carriage, of which his son, a lad of fifteen, had charge. The dog-cart was a very different equipage from the miserable turn-out with which the agent had met his employer on the occasion of his first visit. Everything was of the best--the highly-finished trap, the shining harness, the dashing horse; and "Cobbler" Horn was thankful to mark the honest pride with which the agent handled the reins. A few minutes brought them to Daisy Lane. Here indeed was a change! An unstinted expenditure of money, the toil of innumerable workmen, and the tireless energy and ever-ready tact of Mr. Gray, had converted the place into a model village. Instead of dropsical and rotting hovels, neat and smiling cottages were seen on every side. The vicarage, and the one farm-house not included in the property of "Cobbler" Horn, which had, aforetime, by their respectability and good repair, aggravated the untidiness and dilapidation of the rest of the village, were now rendered almost shabby by the fresh beauty of the renovated property of "the Golden Shoemaker." On every hand there were signs of rejoicing. It was evidently a gala day at Daisy Lane. Over almost every garden gate there was an arch of flowers. Streamers and garlands were displayed at every convenient point. Such a quantity of bunting had never before fluttered in the breezes of Daisy Lane. As they approached the farm-house which "Cobbler" Horn had inspected on the occasion of his first visit, their progress was stayed by the farmer himself, who was waiting for them at his gate, radiant and jovial, a farmer, as it seemed, without a grievance! He advanced into the road with uplifted hand, and Mr. Gray and his son reined in their horses. The farmer approached the side of the dog-cart. "Let me have a shake of your fist, sir," he said, seizing the hand of "the Golden Shoemaker." "You're a model landlord. No offence; but it's hard to believe that you're anyways related to that 'ere old skin-flint as was owner here afore you."