"That's me!" cried Miss Jemima. "My name's Jemima; and 'Aunt 'Mima' was what she always called me. There, Thomas, do you want any further proof?" "Cobbler" Horn was lying with his hands over his face, and the bed was shaking with his convulsive efforts to repress his strong emotion. Fear had impelled him to withstand his growing conviction that his long-lost child had been restored to him--fear of the consequences of a mistake, both to himself, and to the bright young girl whom he had already learnt to love as though she were indeed his child. But now, one after another, his doubts had been beaten down. He had listened eagerly to every word that had been spoken around his bed, and conviction had taken absolute possession of his mind. Yet, for the moment, the shock of his great joy seemed almost more than his weakened nerves could bear. His friends stood around the bed, fearing for him. But, in a few moments, he withdrew his hands from his face, which was wet with the gracious tears of joy. He clasped his hands, and looked reverently upward. "'My soul doth magnify the Lord; and my spirit hath rejoiced in God, my Saviour.'" That was all. "You would like us to leave you, brother?" asked Miss Jemima. "For a very short time." He was quite himself again. "She is out still, isn't she?" "Yes," replied Miss Jemima. "She will be in soon, no doubt. You would like to see her. Well, leave that to me." Then they left him to his blissful thoughts. For many minutes, he gratefully communed with God. He was thankful his child had come back to him so beautiful, and clever, and good. He could regard her with as much pride as love; though he told himself he would have loved her, and done all in his power to make her happy, whatever she had proved to be. And then, how glad he was that she had found her way into his heart before he knew she was his child. Great, indeed, was the joy of "the Golden Shoemaker!" That very day he was to clasp his long-lost child to his heart! The door of his room had been left ajar. Presently he heard the front-door open downstairs; and then there were voices in the hall, one of which he recognised as hers. The next moment he knew that she was coming upstairs. They had not told her the great news yet, of course? No; she was going direct to her own room. He took up the little shoes, which had been left lying on the bed. How well he remembered making them! He had selected for the purpose the very best bit of leather in his stock. He was proceeding to examine more closely the shoe that had been mutilated, when he heard the sound of a door being opened which he knew to be that of his young secretary's room. Would she come to him before going downstairs? In truth, he wished not to see her until she had been told the great news. He breathed more freely when he heard her foot on the stairs.