hair, and
let the thick locks fall in disorder about her head and face; she dragged
the little sun bonnet in the green slime at the margin of the pool, and,
on pretence of tying it on the child's head, wrenched off one of the
strings, which she heedlessly left lying on the ground.

At this point the man returned without the missing shoe.

"It doesn't matter," said his spouse. "Lend me your knife."

She then proceeded to cut and slash Marian's remaining shoe in a most
remorseless manner, after which she replaced it on the child's foot, and
wrapped around the other foot a piece of dirty rag.

"Come now," said the woman, having rolled up Marian's clothes with the
rubbish in her bundle; "we wanted a little girl, and you'll just do." So
saying, she took tight hold of the child's hand.

"I want my daddy!" cried Marian, finding her voice at last.

"That's your daddy now," said the woman, pointing to the man: "and I'm
your mammy. Come along!" and, with the word, she set off at a vigorous
pace, dragging the child, and, followed heavily by her husband, through
the wood, and across the field, and then out upon the road, away and away,
with their backs turned towards Marian's home.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE SHOEMAKER BECOMES "GOLDEN."

One morning, about twelve years after the disappearance of Marian, there
came to her father a great, and almost overwhelming surprise.

It is not necessary to dwell on the manner in which the twelve years had
passed. Nothing had ever been heard of Marian. The most thorough search
was made, but without result; and at length, the stricken father was
constrained to accept the conviction that his child was indeed gone from
him into the great world, and, bowing his head in the presence of his
God, he covered his bruised heart with the fair sheet of a dignified
self-control, and settled down to his work again, like a man and a
Christian.

Yet he did not cease inwardly to grieve. If his child had gone to her dead
mother, there would have been strong consolation, and, perhaps, in time,
contentment might have come. But she was gone, not to her mother, but out
into the cold, pitiless world; and his imagination dwelt grimly on the
nameless miseries into which she might fall.

Miss Jemima still kept her brother's house; but she had been greatly
softened by her self-accusing grief. And now, as the brother and sister
sat at breakfast one autumn mornin