"Don't speak of such a thing, my dear friend!" cried the minister, putting out his hand in turn. "Keep your seat. I'm never busy on a Monday morning--if I can help it. I am always ready, between the hours of nine and one on Monday, for any innocent diversion that may come in my way. I keep what is called 'Saint Monday'--at least in the morning. If I am disturbed on any other morning, I--well, I don't like it. But any reasonable person who finds me at home on a Monday morning--against which, I must admit, the chances are strong, for I frequently go off on some harmless jaunt--is quite welcome to me for that time." "I had an idea of that, sir," responded "Cobbler" Horn. "Ah, you are a most considerate man! But now, about the millions?" "The Golden Shoemaker" smiled. "Not 'millions,' sir--hardly one million yet--indeed a great deal less now, actually in my own hands; though I am seriously afraid of what it may become. All my investments are turning out so well, that the money is coming in much faster than I can get rid of it! It's positively dreadful! I shall have to increase my givings very largely in some way." The minister held up his hands in mock astonishment; and there was a twinkle of honest pleasure in his keen, grey eyes. "Mr. Horn, I believe you are the first man, since the foundation of the world, who has been troubled because his money didn't go fast enough!" "Well, sir, that is the case." His unwieldy wealth weighed too heavily upon his heart and conscience to permit of his adopting the half-humorous view of the situation which Mr. Durnford seemed to take. "But surely, Mr. Horn," urged the minister, becoming serious, "there are plenty of ways for your money. To get money is often difficult; it should be easy enough to get rid of it." "Yes, sir, there are plenty of ways. My poor, devoted secretary knows that as well as I do. But the puzzle is, to find the right ways. If I merely wanted to get rid of my money, the letters of a single week would almost enable me to do that." "Yes, yes," said Mr. Durnford, "of course. I know exactly how it is. You could make your money up in a bag, and toss it into the sea at one throw, if that were all." "Yes," replied "Cobbler" Horn, with a quiet smile; and he sighed faintly, as though he wished it were permissible to rid himself thus easily of his golden encumbrance. "But that is not all, Mr. Durnford," he then said. "No, Mr. Horn, you feel that it would not do to cast your bread on the waters in that literal sense. You are constrained to cast it, not into the sea, but, like precious seed, into the soil of human hearts and lives--soil that has been prepared by the plough of poverty and the harrow of suffering. Isn't that it, my friend?" "Cobbler" Horn leaned forward in his chair, with glistening eyes. "Yes, sir; go on; you are a splendid thought reader." "You feel that merely to dispose of your money anyhow--without discrimination--would be worse than hoarding it up?"