Sorrowing without bitterness, "Cobbler" Horn had no rebellious thoughts. He did not think himself ill-used, or ask petulantly what he had done that such trouble should come to him. His case was very sad. Five years ago he had married a beautiful young Christian girl. Twelve months later she had borne their little dark-eyed daughter Marian. Two years thereafter a baby boy had come and gone in a day; and, from that time, the mother had drooped and faded, day by day, until, at length, the end was close at hand. But "Cobbler" Horn was a Christian, and did not repine. His task was finished at last, and, with a sigh of relief, he rose to his feet. In that moment, he became aware of a tiny figure, standing in the open doorway of the kitchen. It was that of a little four-year-old girl, clad in a ruby-coloured dress, which matched to perfection her dark skin and black hair. Her crimson cheeks were dashed with tears, and she looked like a damask rose just sprinkled by a shower of rain. The light in her dark eyes, which glistened with intense excitement beneath her jet-black hair, indicated that her tears were those of indignation rather than grief. How long she had been standing there he could not tell; but, as soon as she saw that her father had finished his work, little 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.