On his way home from the minister's house, "Cobbler" Horn was somewhat exercised in his mind as to how he should tell his sister what he had done. He could inform her, without hesitation, that the minister had recommended a secretary; but how should he make known the fact that the commended secretary was a lady? He was not afraid of his sister; but he preferred that she should approve of his doings, and he wished to render his approaching announcement as little distasteful to her as might be. But the difficulty of doing this would be great. It would have been hard to imagine a communication likely to prove more unwelcome to Miss Jemima than the announcement that her brother contemplated the employment of a lady secretary. Nor was the difficulty of the situation relieved by the fact that the lady was young, and possibly attractive. It would have been as easy to impart a delectable flavour to a dose of castor-oil, as to render agreeable to his sister the announcement he must immediately make. Long before he reached home, he relinquished all attempt to settle the difficulty which was agitating his mind. He would begin by telling his sister that the minister had recommended a secretary, and then trust to the inspiration of the moment for the rest. Miss Jemima, encompassed with a comprehensive brown apron, stood at the table peeling the potatoes for dinner. "You've been a long time gone, Thomas," she said complacently--for Miss Jemima was in one of her most amiable moods. "Yes; we found many things to talk about." "Well, what did he say on the secretary question?" "Oh, he has recommended one to me who, he thinks, will do first-rate." "Ah! and who is the young man? For of course he is young; all secretaries are." "The person lives in Birmingham," was the guarded reply, "and goes by the name of Owen." Miss Jemima felt by instinct that her brother was keeping something back. She shot at him a keen, swift glance, and then resumed the peeling of the potato just then in hand, which operation she effected with such extreme care, that it was a very attenuated strip of peeling which fell curling from her knife into the brown water in the bowl beneath. "What is this young man's other name?" she calmly asked. "Well, now, I don't know," said "Cobbler" Horn, with a shrewd smile. "Just like you men!" whipped out Miss Jemima, pausing in her work; "but I suppose, as the minister recommends him, it will be all right." There was nothing for it now but a straightforward declaration of the dreadful truth. "Jemima," said "Cobbler" Horn, "I mustn't mislead you. It's not a young man at all." Miss Jemima let fall into the water, with a sudden flop, the potato she was peeling, and faced her brother, knife in hand, with a look of wild astonishment in her eyes. "Not a young man!" she almost shrieked, "What then?" Her brother's emphasis had been on the word _man_, and not on the word _young_. "Well, my dear," he replied, "a young----in fact, a young lady."