The day following his trip to London "Cobbler" Horn paid a visit to his landlord. His purpose was to buy the house in which he lived. Though he realized that he must now take up his actual abode in a house more suited to his altered circumstances, he wished to retain the possession and use of the one in which he had lived so long. The humble cottage was endeared to him by many ties. Here the best part of his life had been passed. Here his brief but blissful married life had been spent, and here his precious wife had died. Of this house his darling little Marian had been the light and joy; and her blithe and loving spirit seemed to haunt it still. These memories, reinforced by a generous purpose on behalf of the poor neighbours whom he had been wont to help, decided him to endeavour to make the house absolutely his own. "Cobbler" Horn did not tell his sister of his intention with regard to the house. He simply said, after breakfast, that he was going out for an hour; and, though Miss Jemima looked at him very hard, she allowed him to depart unquestioned. "Cobbler" Horn's landlord who was reputed to be enormously rich, lived in one of the most completely hidden parts of the town, which was approached by a labyrinth of very narrow and dirty streets. As "Cobbler" Horn pursued his tortuous way to this secluded abode, he pondered, with some misgiving, the chances that his errand would succeed. He knew his landlord to be a man of stubborn temper and of many whims; and he was by no means confident as to the reception with which his intended proposal would meet. It was characteristic that, as he thought of the difficulties of his enterprise, he prayed earnestly that, if God willed, he might obtain the gratification of his present desire. Then, with growing confidence and quickened step, he proceeded on his way, until, at length, he stood before his landlord's house. The house was a low, dingy building of brick, which stood right across the end of a squalid street, and completely blocked the way. Over the door was a grimy sign-board, on which could faintly be distinguished the vague yet comprehensive legend: "D. FROUD, DEALER." The paint upon the crazy door was blistered and had peeled off in huge mis-shapen patches; the door-step was almost worn in two; the windows were dim with the dust of many years.