eely talk to Miss Owen; with his sister it would be a
matter of greater delicacy to deal. He often fancied that his young
secretary was just such as his darling Marian would have been; and quite
naturally, and very simply, he told her about his will, and even spoke of
the money that was to be invested for his lost child. He was quite able
now to talk calmly of the great sorrow of his life. The gentle and
continued rubbing of the hand of time had allayed its sharper pang.

"What do you think of it all, Miss Owen?"

"I think, Mr. Horn," said the secretary, with the end of her penholder
between her ruby lips, and a wistful look in her dark eyes, "that your
daughter would be a very fortunate young lady, if she only knew it; and
that there are not many fathers like you."

"Then you think I have done well?"

"I think, sir, that you have done better than well."

After another spell of work, Miss Owen looked up again with an eager face.

"What was your little Marian like, Mr. Horn?" she asked, in a tender and
subdued tone.

"Well, she was----" But the ardent girl took him up before he could
proceed.

"Would she have grown to be anything like me? I suppose she would be about
my age."

She was leaning forward now, with her elbows on the table, and her hands
supporting her chin. Her richly-tinted cheeks glowed with interest; her
large, dark eyes shone like two bright stars. The question she had asked
could not be to her more than a subject of amiable curiosity; but no doubt
the enthusiastic nature of the girl fully accounted for the eagerness with
which she had spoken. Her sudden enquiry wafted "Cobbler" Horn back into
the past; and there rose before him the vision of a bonny little nut-brown
damsel of five summers, with eyes like sloes, and a mass of dusky hair.
For an instant he caught his breath. He was startled to see, in the face
of his young secretary what he would probably never have detected, if her
question had not pointed it out.

"Well, really, Miss Owen," he said, simply, "now you speak of it, you are
something like what my little Marian may have grown to be by this time."

"How delicious!" exclaimed Miss Owen.

"Cobbler" Horn was gazing intently at his young secretary. What vague
surmisings, like shadows on a window-blind--were flitting through his
brain? What dim rays of hope were struggling to penetrate the gloom?
Suddenly he started, and shook himself, with a sigh. Of course it could
only be a fancy.