Thus mused "the Golden Shoemaker," until, suddenly recollecting himself, he started up. He had promised to visit one of his former neighbours, who was sick, and it was already past the time at which the visit should have been made. He hastily threw off his leathern apron, and put on his coat and hat. At the same moment, he observed that heavy rain was beating against the window. It was now early summer; and, misled by the fair face of the sky, he had left home without an umbrella. What was he to do? He passed into the kitchen, and opening the front door, stood looking out upon the splashing rain. Behind him, in the room, sat, at her sewing, the good woman whom he had placed in charge of the house. She was small, and plump, and shining, the very picture of content. Her manner was respectful, and, as a rule, she did not address "Cobbler" Horn until he had spoken to her. To-day, however, she was the first to speak. "Surely, sir, you won't go out in such a rain!" As she spoke, the shower seemed suddenly to gather force, and the rain to descend in greater volume than ever. "Thank you, Mrs. Bunn," replied "Cobbler" Horn, looking round. "I think I will wait for a moment or two; but I have no time to spare, and must go soon, in any case." The rain had turned the street into a river, upon the surface of which the plumply-falling drops were producing multitudes of those peculiar gleaming white splashes which are known to childhood as "sixpences and half-crowns." All at once the downpour diminished. The sky became lighter, and the sun showed a cleared face through the thinning clouds. "I think I may venture now," said "Cobbler" Horn. "Better wait a little longer, sir; it 'ull come on again," said Mrs. Bunn, with the air of a person to whom the foibles of the weather were fully known. But "Cobbler" Horn was already in the street, and had not heard her words. It was some distance to the house of his sick friend, and he walked along at a rapid pace. But before he had proceeded far, the prophecy of Mrs. Bunn was fulfilled. In a moment, the sky grew black again; and, after a preliminary dash of heavy drops, the rain came down in greater abundance than before. It almost seemed as though a water-spout had burst. In two minutes, "the Golden Shoemaker" was wet to the skin. He might have returned to the house, from which he was distant no more than a few hundred yards; but he thought that, as he was already wet through, he might as well go on. Besides, "Cobbler" Horn's promise was sacred, and it had been given to his sick friend. So he plunged on through the flooded and splashing streets.