Chapter III: Part 3

“‘You know the Bible is God’s book, written to tell us how to be good; and whatever the Bible says we must mind, or God will be angry with us. Now the Bible says, ‘_Thou shalt not steal._’ Do you know what that means?’

“Mrs. Meadow spoke very softly.

“‘Yes,’ said Norman, swinging one little foot back and forward in the warm shine of the fire,—‘I’ve heard it.’

“‘What does it mean?’

“‘I know,’ said Norman.

“‘It is to take what does not belong to us. Now, since God has said that, is it quite right for you to take that money of your mother’s to buy milk for Long-Ears?’

“‘It _isn’t_ her money!’ said Norman, his face changing; ‘and Long-Ears can’t starve!’

“‘It is her money, Norman;—all the money you earn belongs to her, or to your father, which is the same thing. You know it does.’

“‘But Curly must have something to eat,’ said Norman, bursting into tears. ‘Oh, don’t tell! oh, don’t tell!—’

“‘Hush, dear,’ said Mrs. Meadow’s kind voice, and her kind hand on his head;—‘I’m not going to tell; but I want you to be a good boy and do what will please God, that you may be one of the lambs of the Good Shepherd’s flock.—Do you know what I am talking about?’

“‘Yes—no—I don’t know about the lambs,’ said Norman.

“‘Do you know who Jesus Christ is?’

“‘No.’

“‘Poor little thing!’ said Silky, and the tears fell from her face as she went from the fire to the table. Norman looked at her, and so did her mother, and then they looked at each other.

“‘Jesus Christ is your best friend, little Norman.’

“‘Is he?’ said Norman, looking.

“‘Do you know what he has done for you, little pin-boy?’

“Norman looked, and no wonder, for Mrs. Meadow’s eyes were running over full, and he did not know what to make of the dropping tears; but he shook his head.

“‘It’s all told about in God’s book, dear. Little Norman Finch, like everybody else, hasn’t loved God, nor minded his commandments as he ought to do; and God would have punished us all, if Jesus Christ hadn’t come down from heaven on purpose to take our punishment on himself, so that we might be saved.’

“‘How would he have punished us?’ said Norman.

“‘He would have sent us away from him, for ever, to be in a miserable place, with devils and bad people, where we should see nothing good nor happy, and we shouldn’t be good nor happy ourselves; it’s a place so dreadful, it is called in the Bible _the lake that burns with fire_; and he would never let us come into his heaven, where God is, and Jesus Christ is, and the good angels, and all God’s people are, and are all as good and happy as they can be.’

“‘And would I have been punished so?’ said Norman.

“‘Yes,—the Bible says so; and every one will now, who won’t believe and love Jesus Christ.’

“‘And did he go there?’

“‘Where?’

“‘To that place—that bad place—did he go there?’

“‘What, the Lord Jesus?’

“Norman nodded.

“‘Not there,—he is God; and he is called the Son of God; he could not do that; but he did this. He came to this world and was born into this world a little child; and when he grew up to be a man, he died a cruel death for you and me—for you and me, little Norman.’

“‘And then will God not punish me now?’ said Norman.

“‘No, not a bit, if you will love the Lord Jesus and be his child.’

“‘What did he do that for?’ said Norman.

“‘Because he is so good he loved us, and wanted to save us and bring us back to be his children, and to be good and happy.’

“‘Does he love me?’ said Norman.

“‘Yes, indeed,’ said Mrs. Meadow. ‘Do you think he came to die for you and doesn’t love you? If you will love and obey him, he will love you for ever, and take care of you;—better care than any one else can.’

“‘There isn’t anybody else to take care of me,’ said Norman. ‘Mother can’t, and father don’t, much. I wish I knew about that.’

“With a look, of wonder and interest, at her daughter, Mrs. Meadow reached after her Bible, without letting Norman down from her lap; and turning from place to place, read to him the story of Christ’s death, and various parts of his life and teaching. He listened, gravely and constantly and intently, and seemed not to weary of it at all, till she was tired and obliged to stop. He made no remark then, but sat a little while with a sober face; till his own fatigue of days past came over him, and his eyelids drooped, and slipping from Mrs. Meadow’s lap, he laid himself down on the hearth to sleep. They put something under his head and sat watching him, the eyes of both every now and then running over.

“‘How much do you think he understood, mother?’ said Silky.

“‘I don’t know,’ said Mrs. Meadow, shaking her head.

“‘He listened, mother,’ said Silky.

“‘Yes. I won’t say anything more to him to-day. He’s had enough.’

“And when the little sleeper awoke, they bent all their attention to giving him a pleasant day. He had a good dinner and a nice supper. His clothes were thoroughly dried; and Mrs. Meadow said when she put them on, that if she could only get a chance of a week-day, she would patch them up comfortably for him. Towards nightfall the rain stopped, and he went home dry and warm, and with a good piece of cheese and a loaf of plain gingerbread under his arm. When he was all ready to set out he paused at the door, and looking up at Mrs. Meadow said,—

“‘Does he say we mustn’t do that?’

“‘Who, dear?’

“‘Does Jesus Christ say we mustn’t do that?’

“‘Do what?’

“‘Steal,’ said Norman, softly.

“‘Yes, to be sure. The Bible says it, and the Bible is God’s word; and Jesus said it over again when he was on the earth.’

“Norman stood a quarter of a minute, and then went out and closed the door.

“The next morning they looked eagerly for him. But he did not come. He stopped at evening, as usual, but Silky was just then busy and did not speak to him beyond a word. Tuesday morning he did not come. At night he was there again with his jug.

“‘How do you do, Norman?’ said Mrs. Meadow, when she filled it, ‘and how is Long-Ears?’

“But Norman did not answer, and turned to go.

“‘Come here in the morning, Norman,’ Mrs. Meadow called after him.

“Whether he heard her or not, he did not shew himself on his way to the factory next morning. That was Wednesday.

“‘Norman hasn’t been here these three days, mother,’ said Silky. ‘Can it be he has made up his mind to do without his halfpennyworth of milk for the dog?’

“‘Little fellow!’ said Mrs. Meadow, ‘I meant to have given it to him; skim milk would do, I dare say; but I forgot to tell him Sunday; and I told him last night to stop, but he hasn’t done it. We’ll go up there, Silky, and see how he is, after dinner.’

“‘To the factory, mother?’

“‘Ay.’

“‘And I’ll carry a little pail of milk along, mother.’

“‘Well, honey, do.’

“After dinner they went, and I went in Silky’s pocket. The factory was not a great distance from Mrs. Meadow’s house, which stood half way between that and the town. Mrs. Meadow asked for Mr. Swift, and presently he came. Mrs. Meadow was a general favourite, I had found before; everybody spoke her fair; certainly she did the same by everybody.

“‘Is little Norman Finch at work to-day, Mr. Swift?’

“‘Norman Finch? Well, yes, ma’am, he’s to work,’ said the overseer;—‘he don’t _do_ much work this day or so.’

“‘He’s not just right well, Mr. Swift.’

“‘Well, no, I s’pose he isn’t. He hasn’t hard work neither; but he’s a poor little billet of a boy.’

“‘Is he a good boy, sir?’

“‘Average,’ said Mr. Swift;—‘as good as the average. What, you’re going to adopt him?’

“‘No, sir,’ said Mrs. Meadow; ‘I wanted to ask a few questions about him.’

“‘I don’t know any harm of him,’ said Mr. Swift. ‘He’s about like the common. Not particularly strong in the head, nor anywhere else, for that matter; but he is a good-feeling child. Yes—now I remember. It’s as much as a year ago, that I was mad with him one day, and was going to give the careless little rascal a strapping for something,—I forget what; we must keep them in order, Mrs. Meadow, let them be what they will;—I was going to give it to him, for something,—and a bold brave fellow in the same room, about twice as big and six times as strong as Norman, offered to take it and spare him. _I_ didn’t care; it answered my purpose of keeping order just as well that Bill Bollings should have it as Norman Finch, if he had a mind;—and ever since that time Finch has been ready to lay down his body and soul for Bollings, if it could do him any service. He’s a good-hearted boy, I do suppose.’

“Mrs. Meadow and Silky looked at each other.

“‘That’s it, mother!’ said Silky. ‘That’s why he understood and took it so quick.’

“‘What a noble boy, the other one!’ said Mrs. Meadow.

“‘Ha? well—_that_ was noble enough,’ said Mr. Swift; ‘but he’s a kind of harum-scarum fellow—just as likely to get himself into a scrape to-morrow as to get somebody else out of one to-day.’

“‘That was noble,’ repeated Mrs. Meadow.

“‘Norman has never forgotten it. As I said, he’d lay down body and soul for him. There’s a little pet-dog he has, too,’ Mr. Swift went on, ’that I believe he’d do as much for. A pretty creature! I would have bought it of him, and given a good price for it, but he seemed frightened at the proposal. I believe he keeps the creature here partly for fear he would lose him home.’

“‘Isn’t it against the rules, sir, to have a dog in the factory?’

“‘Entirely!—of course!’ said Mr. Swift; ‘but Mr. Carroll has said it, and so a new rule is made for the occasion. Mr. Carroll was willing to let such a pretty creature be anywhere, I believe.’

“‘I should be afraid he would get hurt.’

“‘So I was, but the dog has sense enough; he gets into no danger, and keeps out of the way like a Christian.’

“‘May we go in, sir, and see Norman for a moment?’

“‘Certainly,’ Mr. Swift said; and himself led the way.

“Through several long rooms and rows of workers went Mr. Swift, and Mrs. Meadow and Silky after him, to the one where they found little Norman. He was standing before some sort of a machine, folding papers and pressing them against rows of pins, that were held all in order and with their points ready, by two pieces of iron in the machine. Norman was not working smartly, and looked already jaded, though it was early in the afternoon. Close at his feet, almost touching him, lay the little white dog. A very little and a most beautiful creature. Soft, white, curling hair, and large silky ears that drooped to the floor, as he lay with his head upon his paws; and two gentle brown eyes looked almost pitifully up at the strangers. He did not get up; nor did Norman look round, till Mrs. Meadow spoke to him.

“‘Hey, my boy, how are you getting on?’ Mr. Swift said first, with a somewhat rough but not unkind slap across the shoulders. Norman shrugged his shoulders, and said,—

“‘Pretty well, thank you, sir,—’ when he heard Mrs. Meadow’s soft, ‘Norman, how do you do?’

“His fingers fell from the row of pin points, and he turned towards her, looking a good deal surprised and a little pleased, but with a very sober face.

“‘Where have you been these two or three days?’

“‘I’ve been here,’ said Norman gravely.

“‘How comes it you haven’t been for Long-Ears’ milk these days?’

“‘I—I couldn’t,’ said Norman.

“‘Why?’

“‘I hadn’t any money—I gave it to mother.’ He spoke low, and with some difficulty.

“‘What made you do that, Norman?’

“He looked up at her.

“‘Because,—you know,—Jesus said so.’

“Mrs. Meadow had been stooping down to speak to him, but now she stood up straight, and for a minute she said nothing.

“‘And what has Long-Ears done, dear, without his milk?’

“Norman was silent, and his mouth twitched. Mrs. Meadow looked at the little dog, which lay still where he had been when she came in, his gentle eyes having, she thought, a curious sort of wistfulness in their note-taking.

“‘Won’t he eat meat?’

“Norman shook his head and said ‘No,’ under his breath.

“‘He’s a dainty little rascal,’ said the overseer; ’he was made to live on sweetmeats and sugarplums.’ And Mr. Swift walked on.

“‘I’ve brought him some milk,’ whispered Silky; and softly stooping down she uncovered her little tin-pail and tried to coax the dog to come to it. But Norman no sooner caught the words of her whisper and saw the pail, than his spirit gave way; he burst into a bitter fit of crying, and threw himself down oh the floor and hid his face.

“Mr. Swift came back to see what was the matter. Mrs. Meadow explained part to him, without telling of Norman’s keeping the money.

“‘O well,’ said Mr. Swift,—‘but he mustn’t make such a disturbance about it—it’s against all order; and feeding the dog, too, Lois!—but it’s a pretty creature. He’s hungry, he is! Well; it’s well we don’t have ladies come to the factory every day.’

“Silky’s other name was Lois.

“‘I’ll never do so again, Mr. Swift,’ said she, gently.

“‘O I don’t say that,’ said he. ‘I don’t dislike the sight of you, Miss Lois; but I must have you searched at the door. Keep this boy quiet, now, Mrs. Meadow; and don’t stay too long; or take him with you.’

“The boy was quiet enough now. While Mr. Swift had been speaking he had raised himself from the floor, half up, and had stopped sobbing, and was looking at Long-Ears and gently touching his curly head; who, on his part, was lapping the milk with an eagerness as if he had wanted it for some time. Norman’s tears fell yet, but they fell quietly. By the time the little dog had finished the milk they did not fall at all. Till then nobody said anything.

“‘Come for it every morning again, my child,’ said Mrs. Meadow, softly;—‘I’ll give it to you. What a dear little fellow he is! I don’t wonder you love him. He shall have milk enough.’

“Norman looked up gratefully, and with a little bit of a smile.

“‘You don’t look very strong, my boy,’ said Mrs. Meadow. ‘You don’t feel right well, do you?’

“He shook his head, as if it was a matter beyond his understanding.

“‘Are you tired?’

“His eyes gave token of understanding that.

“‘Yes, I’m tired. People are not tired up there, are they?’

“‘Where, dear?’

“‘Up there—in heaven?’

“‘No, dear,’ said Mrs. Meadow.

“‘I’ll go there, won’t I?’

“‘If you love Jesus and serve him, he will take good care of you and bring you safe there surely.’

“‘He will,’ said Norman.

“‘But you’re not going yet, I hope, dear,’ said Mrs. Meadow, kissing him. ‘Good bye. Come to-morrow, and you shall have the milk.’

“‘Will you read to me that again, some time?’ he enquired wistfully.

“Mrs. Meadow could hardly answer. She and Silky walked back without saying three words to each other; and I never saw Mrs. Meadow cry so much as she did that afternoon and evening.

“Norman came after that every morning for the dog’s milk; and many a Sunday he and Long-Ears passed part of the time with Mrs. Meadow; and many a reading he listened to there as he had listened to the first one. He didn’t talk much. He was always near his little dog, and he seemed quietly to enjoy everything at those times.

“As the summer changed into autumn, and autumn gave way to winter, Norman’s little face seemed to grow better looking, all the while it was growing more pale and his little body more slim. It grew to be a contented, very quiet and patient face, and his eye took a clearness and openness it did not use to have; though he never was a _bad_-looking child. ‘He won’t live long,’ Mrs. Meadow said, after every Sunday.

“The little white dog all this while grew more white and curly and bright-eyed every day; or they all thought so.

“It was not till some time in January that at last Norman stopped coming for milk, and did not go by to the factory any more. It was in a severe bit of weather, when Mrs. Meadow was shut up with a bad cold; and some days were gone before she or Silky could get any news of him. Then, one cold evening, his mother came for milk, and to say that Norman was very ill and would like to see Lois and Mrs. Meadow. She was a miserable-looking woman, wretchedly dressed, and with a jaded, spiritless air, that seemed as if everything she cared for in life was gone, or she too poor to care for it. I thought Norman must have a sad home where she was. And his father must be much worse in another way, or his mother would not have such a look.

“Silky and Mrs. Meadow got ready directly. Silky put her purse in her pocket, as she generally did when she was going to see poor people, and wrapping up warm with cloaks and shawls and hoods, she and her mother set out. It was just sunset of a winter’s day; clear enough, but uncommonly cold.

“‘It will be dark by the time we come home, mother,’ said Silky.

“‘Yes, honey, but we can find the way,’ came from under Mrs. Meadow’s hood; and after that neither of them spoke a word.

“It was not a long way; they soon came to the edge of the town, and took a poor straggling street that ran where no good and comfortable buildings shewed themselves, or at least no good and comfortable homes. Some of the houses were decently well-built, but several families lived in each of them, and comfort seemed to be an unknown circumstance; at least after Mrs. Meadow’s nice kitchen, with the thick carpet, and blazing fire, and dark cupboard doors, these all looked so. The light grew dimmer and the air grew colder, as Mrs. Meadow and Silky went down the street; and Silky was trembling all over by the time they stopped at one of these brick dwelling-houses and went in.

“The front door stood open; nobody minded that; it was nobody’s business to shut it. They went in, through a dirty entry, and up stairs that nobody ever thought of cleaning, to the third story. There Mrs. Meadow first knocked, and then gently opened the door. A man was there, sitting over the fire; a wretched tallow-light on the table hardly shewed what he looked like. Mrs Meadow spoke with her usual pleasantness.

“‘Good evening, Mr. Finch. Can I see little Norman?’

“‘Yes,—I suppose so,’ the man said, in a gruff voice, and pointing to another door; ‘they’re in yonder.’

“‘How is he?’

“‘I don’t know!—Going, I expect.’ He spoke in a tone that might have been half heartless, half heartfull. Mrs. Meadow stayed no further questions. She left him there, and went on to the inner room.

“That was so dark, hardly anything could be seen. A woman rose up from some corner—it proved to be Mrs. Finch—and went for the light. Her husband’s voice could be heard gruffly asking her what she wanted with it, and her muttered words of reply; and then she came back with it in her hand.

“The room was ill-lighted when the candle was in it, but there could be seen two beds; one raised on some sort of a bedstead, the other on the floor in a corner. No fire was in this room, and the bed was covered with all sorts of coverings; a torn quilt, an old great-coat, a small ragged worsted shawl, and Norman’s own poor little jacket and trowsers. But on these, close within reach of the boy’s hand, lay curled the little dog; his glossy white hair and soft outlines making a strange contrast with the rags and poverty and ugliness of the place.

“Norman did not look much changed, except that his face was so very pale it seemed as if he had no more blood to leave it. Mrs. Meadow and Silky came near, and neither of them at first was forward to speak. Mrs. Finch stood holding the light. Then Mrs. Meadow stooped down by the bed’s head.

“‘Little Norman,’ she said, and you could tell her heart was full of tears,—‘do you know me?’

“‘I know you,’ he said, in a weak voice, and with a little bit of smile.

“‘How do you do?’

“‘Very well,’ he said, in the same manner.

“‘Are you very well?’ said Mrs. Meadow.

“‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m going now.’

“‘Where, dear?’

“‘You know—to that good place. Jesus will take me, won’t he?’

“‘If you love and trust him, dear.’

“‘He will take me,’ said Norman.

“‘What makes you think you’re going, dear?’ said Mrs. Meadow.

“‘I can’t stay,’—said Norman, shutting his eyes. He opened them again immediately. ‘I’m going,’ he said. ‘I’m so tired. I sha’n’t be tired there, shall I?’

“‘No dear,’ said Mrs. Meadow, whose power of speech was like to fail her. She kept wiping her face with her pocket-handkerchief. Norman stroked and stroked his little dog’s silky head.

“‘Poor Long-Ears!’ said he, faintly,—‘poor Long-Ears!—I can’t take care of you now. Poor Long-Ears! you’re hungry. He hadn’t had anything to eat since—since—mother?’

“‘He don’t know how time goes,’ said Mrs. Finch, who had not before spoken. ‘The dog hasn’t had a sup of anything since day before yesterday. He has a right to be hungry. I don’t know what he lives on. My husband don’t care whether anything lives or not.’

“Silky had not said a word, and she didn’t now, but she brought out that same little tin pail from under her cloak, and set it down on the floor. Norman’s eye brightened. But the dog could not be coaxed to quit the bed; he would set only his two fore-feet on the floor, and so drank the milk out of the pail. Norman watched him, almost with a smile. And when the dog, having left the milk, curled himself down again in his old place, and looked into his master’s face, Norman quite smiled.

“‘Poor Long-Ears!’—he said, patting him again with a feeble hand. ‘I’m going to leave you,—what will you do?’

“‘I’ll take care of him, Norman,’ said Mrs. Meadow.

“‘Will you?’ said Norman.

“‘As long as he lives, if you wish.’

“Norman signed for her to put her ear down to him, and said earnestly,—

“‘I give him to you—you keep him. Will you?’

“‘Yes, indeed, I will,’ said Mrs. Meadow.

“‘Then you’ll have milk enough, dear little Long-Ears,’ said Norman. ‘But,’ he said eagerly to Mrs. Meadow, ‘you must take him home with you to-night—I’m afraid father will do something with him if you don’t.’

“‘But you will want him,’ said Mrs. Meadow.

“‘No I won’t. Father will do something with him.’

“‘Indeed he will, sure enough,’ said Mrs Finch.

“‘Then I’ll take him, and keep him, dear, as if he was yourself,’ said Mrs. Meadow.

“‘I won’t want him,’ said Norman, shutting his eyes again;—‘I’m going.’

“‘And you’re not sorry, dear?’ said Mrs. Meadow.

“‘No!’ he said.

“‘I wonder why he should,’ said Mrs. Finch, wiping her eyes.

“‘And you know Jesus will take you?’

“‘Because I love him,’ said Norman, without opening his eyes.

“‘What makes you love him so, dear?’

“‘Because he did that for me,’ said Norman, opening his eyes once more to look at her, and then re-shutting them. And he never opened them again. It seemed that having his mind easy about his pet, and having seen his friends, he wanted nothing more on this earth. He just slumbered away a few hours, and died so, as quietly as he had slept. His little pale meek face looked as if, as he said, he was glad to go.

“Nothing but a degree of force that no one would use could have moved Long-Ears from the body of his master, till it was laid in the grave. Then, with some difficulty, Mrs. Meadow gained possession of him, and brought him home.”

“Is that all?” said Carl, when the story stopped.

“All.”

“What more of Mrs. Meadow and Silky?”

“Nothing more. They lived there, and took care of Long-Ears, and were kind to everybody, and sold milk, just as they used.”

“And what about Long-Ears?”

“Nothing about him. He lived there with Mrs. Meadow and Silky, and was as well off as a little dog could be.”

“And is that all?”

“That is all.”

“And how did you get here?”

“I’ve told enough for once.”

“I’ll hear the rest another time,” said Carl, as he grasped the purse, and ran off towards home; for it was getting to be high noon, and his mother had called to him that dinner was ready.

* * * * *

“Mother,” said Carl, “I’ve heard the stories of my purse, and of my red cent, and of my three apples, and they’re splendid!”

“What a child!” said Mrs. Krinken. “Are the stories not done yet?”

“No,” said Carl; “and I don’t know which to hear next. There’s the boat, and the pine-cone, and the shoes, and the book, and the old stocking;—all of them;—and I don’t know which to have first. Which would you, mother?”

“What’s all that?” said John Krinken.

“He says his things tell him stories,” said Mrs. Krinken; “and he’s told over one or two to me, and it’s as good as a book. I can’t think where the child got hold of them.”

“Why they _told_ ’em to me, mother,” said Carl.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Krinken; “something told it to thee, child.”

“Who told ’em, Carl?” said his father.

“My red cent, and my purse, and my three apples—or only one of the apples,” said Carl;—“that was Beachamwell.”

“Beach ’em _what_?” said his father.

“Beachamwell—that is the biggest of my three apples,” said Carl.

At which John and Mrs. Krinken looked at each other, and laughed till their eyes ran down with tears.

“Let’s hear about Beachamwell,” said John, when he could speak.

“I’ve told it,” said Carl, a little put out.

“Yes; and it was a pretty story, as ever I heard, or wish to hear,” said Mrs. Krinken, soothingly.

“Let’s hear the story of the shoes, then,” said John.

“_I_ haven’t heard it yet,” said Carl.

“O, and you can’t tell it till you’ve heard it?” said his father.

“I haven’t heard any of ’em but three,” said Carl, “and I don’t know which to hear next.”

“The old stocking would tell you a rare story if it knew how,” said his father; “it could spin you a yarn as long as its own.”

“I’d rather hear the old pine-cone, John,” said his wife. “Ask the pine-cone, Carl. I wish it could tell, and I hear!”

“Which first?” said Carl, looking from one to the other.

But John and Mrs. Krinken were too busy thinking of the story-teller to help him out with his question about the stories.

“Then I’m a going to keep the stocking for the very last one!” said Carl.

“Why?” said his mother.

“’Cause it’s ugly. And I guess I’ll make the shoes tell me their story next; because I might want to put them on, you know!”

And Carl looked down at two sets of fresh-coloured toes, which looked out at him through the cracks of his old half-boots.

Mr. and Mrs. Krinken got up laughing, to attend to their business; and Carl indignantly seizing his shoes, ran off with them out of hearing to the sunny side of the house, where he plumped himself down on the ground with them in front of him, and commanded them to speak.

THE STORY OF THE TWO SHOES.

“I believe,” said the right shoe, “that I am the first individual of my race whose history has ever been thought worth asking for. I hope to improve my opportunity. I consider it to be a duty in all classes for each member of the class——”

“You may skip about that,” said Carl. “I don’t care about it.”

“I am afraid,” said the right shoe, “I am uninteresting. My excuse is, that I never was fitted to be anything else. Not to press upon people’s notice is the very lesson we are especially learned; we were never intended to occupy a high position in society, and it is reckoned an unbearable fault in us to make much noise in the world.”

“I say,” said Carl, “you may skip that.”

“I beg pardon,” said the shoe, “I was coming to the point. ‘Step by step’ is our family motto. However, I know young people like to get over the ground at a leap. I will do it at once.

“My brother and I are twins, and as much alike as it is possible perhaps for twins to be Mr. Peg, the cobbler, thought we were exactly alike; and our upper leathers did indeed run about on the same calf (as perchance they may another time), but our soles were once further apart than they are ever like to be for the future; one having roamed the green fields of Ohio on the back of a sturdy ox, while the other was raised in Vermont. However, we are mates now; and having been, as they say, ‘cut out for each other,’ I have no doubt we shall jog on together perfectly well.

“We are rather an old pair of shoes. In fact we have been on hand almost a year. I should judge from the remarks of our friend Mr. Peg when he was beginning upon us, that he was very unaccustomed to the trade of shoe-_making_—shoe-mending was what he had before lived by; or, perhaps, I should rather say, tried to live by; I am afraid it was hard work; and I suppose Mr. Peg acted upon the excellent saying, which is also a motto in our family, that ‘It is good to have two strings to one’s bow.’ It was in a little light front room, looking upon the street, which was Mr. Peg’s parlour, and shop, and workroom, that he cut out the leather and prepared the soles for this his first manufacture. I think he hadn’t stuff enough but for one pair, for I heard him sigh once or twice as he was fidgeting with his pattern over my brother’s upper leather, till it was made out. Mr. Peg was a little oldish man, with a crown of grey hairs all round the back part of his head; and he sat to work in his shirt sleeves, and with a thick, short leather apron before him. There was a little fire-place in the room, with sometimes fire in it, and sometimes not; and the only furniture was Mr. Peg’s little bit of a counter, the low rush-bottomed chair in which he sat to work, and a better one for a customer; his tools, and his chips—by which I mean the scraps of leather which he scattered about.

“Hardly had Mr. Peg got the soles and the upper leathers and the vamps to his mind, and sat down on his chair to begin work, when a little girl came in. She came from a door that opened upon a staircase leading to the upper room, and walked up to the cobbler. It was a little brown-haired girl, about nine or ten years old, in an old calico frock and pantalettes; she was not becomingly dressed, and she did not look very well.

“‘Father,’ she said,—‘mother’s head aches again.’

“The cobbler paused in his work, and looked up at her.

“‘And she wants you to come up and rub it—she says I can’t do it hard enough.’

“Rather slowly Mr. Peg laid his upper leather and tools down.

“‘Will you close this shoe for me, Sue, while I am gone?’

“He spoke half pleasantly, and half, to judge by his tone and manner, with some sorrowful meaning. So the little girl took it, for she answered a little sadly,—

“‘I wish I could, father.’

“‘I’m glad you can’t, dear.’

“He laid his work down, and mounted the stairs. She went to the window, and stood with her elbows leaning on the sill, looking into the street.

“It is only a small town, that Beachhead; but still, being a sea-coast town, there is a good deal of stir about it. The fishermen from the one side, and the farmers from the other, with their various merchandise; the busy boys, and odd forms of women for ever bustling up and down, make it quite a lively place. There is always a good deal to see in the street. Yet the little girl stood very still and quiet by the window; her head did not turn this way and that; she stood like a stupid person, who did not know what was going on. A woman passing up the street stopped a moment at the window.

“‘How’s your mother to-day, Sue?’

“‘She’s getting along slowly, Mrs. Binch.’

“‘Does the doctor say she is dangerous any?’

“‘The doctor don’t come any more.’

“‘Has he giv’ her up?’

“‘Yes; he says there is nothing to do but to let her get well.’

“‘O!—she’s so smart, is she?’

“‘No, ma’am,—she’s not smart at all: he says——’

“But Mrs. Binch had passed on, and was out of hearing; and the little brown head stood still at the window again, leaning now on one hand. It was a smooth-brushed, round little head, seen against the open window. By and by another stopped, a lady this time; a lady dressed in black, with a grave, sweet, delicate face.

“‘How’s your mother, Sue?’

“‘She’s just the same way, Mrs. Lucy.’

“‘No better?’

“‘Not much, ma’am. It’ll take a long time, the doctor says.’

“‘And are you, poor little tot, all alone in the house to do everything?’

“‘No, ma’am;—there’s father.’

“The sweet face gave her a sort of long, wistful look, and passed on. Sue stood there yet at the window, with her head leaning on her hand; and whatever was the reason, so dull of hearing that her father had come down, seated himself in his work-chair, and taken up his shoe, several minutes before she found it out. Then she left the window and came to him.

“‘What shall I do, father?’

“‘She’ll want you directly,’ said the cobbler. ‘She’s asleep now.’

“Sue stood still.

“‘Don’t you want some dinner, Sue?’

“She hesitated a little, and then said ‘yes.’

“‘Well, see, dear, and make some more of that porridge. Can you?’

“‘Yes, father; there’s some meal yet. And there’s some bread, too.’

“‘You may have that,’ said the cobbler. ‘And I’ll go out by and by, and see if I can get a little money. Mr. Shipham had a pair of boots new soled a month ago; and Mr. Binch owes me for some jobs—if I ever could get hold of them.’

“And the cobbler sighed.

“‘If people only knew, they would pay you, father, wouldn’t they?’

“‘There is one that knows,’ said the cobbler. ‘And why they don’t pay me he knows. Maybe it’s to teach you and me, Sue, that man does not live by bread alone.’

“‘But by every word that proceedeth out of the mouth of God doth man live,’ his little daughter went on softly, as if she were filling up the words for her own satisfaction. ‘But didn’t we know that before, father?’

“‘Maybe we didn’t know it enough,’ said the cobbler. ‘I’m afraid I don’t now.’

“And as her back was turned, he hastily brought his hand to his eyes.

“‘But father, can one help feeling a little bad when—when things are so now?’

“‘‘A little bad’—perhaps one might feel ‘_a little bad_,’’ said the cobbler; ‘but if I believed all that I know, I don’t see how I could feel _very_ bad. I don’t see how I could; and I oughtn’t to.’

“His little daughter had been raking the fire together, and setting on the coals a little iron skillet of water. She turned and looked at him when he said this, as if she had not known before that he did feel ‘very bad.’ He did not see the look, which was a startled and sorrowful one; he was bending over his shoe-leather. She left the room then and went after the meal, which she brought in a yellow earthen dish, and began silently to mix for the porridge.

“‘The Bible says, father——’ she began, stirring away.

“‘Yes, dear,—what does it say?’ said Mr. Peg.

“‘It says, ‘_Trust in the Lord and do good; so shall thou dwell in the land, and verily_——’’

“Susan’s voice broke. She stirred her porridge vehemently, and turned her back to her father.

“‘‘_Verily thou shalt be fed_,’’ said the cobbler. ‘Yes—I know it. The thing is, to believe it.’

“‘You do believe it, father,’ Susan said, softly.

“‘Ay, but I haven’t trusted the Lord, nor done good, any to speak of. It’ll stand good for you, daughter, if it doesn’t for me.’

“She had stirred her meal into the skillet; and now, setting down her dish, she came to his side, and putting her two arms round his neck, she kissed him all over his face. The cobbler let fall leather and ends, and hugged her up to his breast.

“‘That’s done me more good than dinner now,’ said he, when he had, albeit tearfully, given her two or three sound kisses by way of finishing. ‘You may have all the porridge, Susie.’

“‘There’s enough, father; and there’s some bread, too.’

“‘Eat it all up,’ said the cobbler, turning to his work again, maybe to hide his eyes. She stood leaning on his shoulder, just so as not to hinder the play of his arm.

“‘Shall I keep the bread for supper, father?’

“‘No, dear; maybe I’ll get some money before supper.’

“‘Whose shoes are those, father?’

“‘They aren’t anybody’s yet.’

“‘Whose are they going to be?’

“‘I don’t know.—The first pair of feet that come along that will fit ’em. If I sell these I’ll get some leather and make more.’

“‘Is that the last of your leather, father?’

“‘Ay—the last big enough; the rest is all pieces.’

“She stood a little while longer, laying her head on his shoulder; then came a knocking up stairs, and she ran away. The cobbler wrought at his shoe for a space, when turning his head, he dropped everything to go and see after the porridge; and he squatted over the fire, stirring it, till such time as he thought it was done, and he drew back the skillet. He went to the foot of the stairs, and looked up and listened for a minute, and then left it and came back without calling anybody. It was plain he must eat his dinner alone.

“His dinner was nothing but porridge and salt, eaten with what would have been a good appetite if it had had good thoughts to back it. And the cobbler did not seem uncheerful; only once or twice he stopped and looked a good while with a grave face into the fire or on the hearth. But a porridge dinner after all could not last long. Mr. Peg set away his plate and spoon, placed the skillet carefully in the corner of the fire-place, took off his leather apron, and put on his coat; and, taking his hat from the counter, he went out.

“There were no more stitches set in the shoe that afternoon, for Mr. Peg did not get home till dark. The first thing that happened after he went away, a gust of wind blew round the house and came down the chimney, bringing with it a shower of soot, which must have sprinkled pretty thick upon the open skillet. Then the wind seemed to go up chimney again, and could be heard whistling off among the neighbouring housetops. A while after, little Susie came down, and made for her skillet. She pulled it out, and fetched her plate and spoon, and began to skim out the soot. But I suppose she found it pretty bad, or else that it would lose her a good deal of the porridge; for one time she set her plate and spoon down on the hearth beside her, and laid her face in her apron. She soon took it up again; but she didn’t make a large meal of the porridge.

“She went up-stairs then immediately, and when she came down the second time it was near evening. She stood and looked about to see that her father was not come in; then she built up the fire, and when it was burning stood and looked into it, just in the same way that she had stood and looked out of the window. Suddenly she wheeled about, and coming behind the counter took her father’s Bible from a heap of bits of leather where it lay, and went and sat down on the hearth with it; and as long as there was light to see, she was bending over it. Then, when the light faded, she clasped her hands upon the shut Bible, and leaning back against the jamb fell fast asleep in an instant, with her head against the stone.

“There she was when her father came home. Her feet were stretched out upon the hearth, and he stumbled over them. That waked her. By the glimmering light of the embers something could be seen hanging from Mr. Peg’s hand.

“‘Have you got home, father?—I believe I got asleep waiting for you. What have you got in your hand?—Fish!—Oh, father!—’

“You should have heard the change of little Sue’s voice when she spoke that. Generally her way of speaking was low and gentle like the twilight, but those two words were like a burst of sunshine.

“‘Yes, dear—Blow up the fire, so you can see them—I’ve been to Mrs. Binch’s—I’ve been all over town, a’most—and Mrs. Binch’s boy had just come in with some, and she gave me a fine string of ’em—nice blue fish—there.’

“Susan had made a light blaze, and then she and the cobbler admired and turned and almost smelt of the fish, for joy.

“‘And shall we have one for supper, father?’

“‘Yes dear—You have some coals and I’ll get the fish ready right off. Has mother had all she wanted to-day?’

“‘Yes, father—Mrs. Lucy sent her some soup, and she had plenty. And I saved the bread from dinner, father, isn’t it good; and there’s more porridge too.’

“What a bed of coals Sue had made, by the time her father came back with the fish, nicely cleaned and washed. She put it down, and then the two sat over it in the firelight and watched it broil. It was done as nicely as a fish could be done; and Susan fetched the plates, and the salt, and the bread; and then the cobbler gave thanks to God for their supper. And then the two made such a meal! there wasn’t a bone of that fish but was clean picked, nor a grain of salt but what did duty on a sweet morsel. There was not a scrap of bread left from that supper; and I was as glad as anything of my tough nature can be, to know that there were several more fish beside the one eaten. Sue cleared away the things when they had done, ran up to see if her mother was comfortable, and soon ran down again. Her step had changed too.

“‘Now darling,’ said her father, ‘come and let us have our talk by this good firelight.’

“She came to his arms and kissed him; and his arms were wrapped round her, and she sat on his knee.

“‘It’s one good thing, you haven’t lights to work, so we can talk,’ said Sue, stroking his face. ‘If you had, we couldn’t.’

“‘Maybe we would,’ said the cobbler. ‘Let us talk to-night of the things we have to be thankful for.’

“‘There’s a great many of them, father,’ said Sue, with her twilight voice.

“‘The first thing is, that we know we have a Friend in heaven; and that we do love and trust him.’

“‘O father!’ said Sue,—‘if you begin with that, all the other things will not seem anything at all.’

“‘That’s true,’ said Mr. Peg. ‘Well, Sue, let’s have ’em all. You begin.’

“‘I don’t know what to begin with,’ said Sue, looking into the fire.

“‘I have you,’ said her father, softly kissing her.

“‘O father!—and I have you;—but now you are taking the next best things.’

“‘I shouldn’t care for all the rest without this one,’ said the cobbler;—‘nor I shouldn’t mind anything but for this,’ he added, in a somewhat changed tone.

“‘But father, you mustn’t talk of that to-night;—we are only going to talk of the things we have to be thankful for.’

“‘Well, we’ll take the others to-morrow night, maybe, and see what we can make of them. Go on, Susie,’ said the cobbler, putting his head down to her cheek,—‘I have my dear little child, and she has her father. That’s something to thank God and to be glad for,—every day.’

“‘So I do, every day, father,’ said Susan very softly.

“‘And so do I,’ said the cobbler; ‘and while I can take care of thee, my dearest, I will take trouble for nothing else.’

“‘Now you are getting upon the other things, father,’ said Sue. ‘Father, it is something to be thankful for that we can have such a nice fire every night,—and every day, if we want it.’

“‘You don’t know what a blessing ’tis, Sue,’ said her father. ‘If we lived where we couldn’t get drift-wood,—if we lived as some of the poor people do in the great cities, without anything but a few handfuls of stuff to burn in the hardest weather, and that wretched stuff for making a fire,—I am glad you don’t know how good it is, Sue!’ said he, hugging his arms round her. ‘There isn’t a morning of my life but I thank God for giving us wood, when I go about kindling it.’

“‘How do they do in those places, without wood?’ said Sue, sticking out her feet towards the warm, ruddy blaze.

“‘He who knows all only knows,’ said the cobbler, gravely. ‘They do without! It seems to me I would rather go without eating, and have a fire.’

“‘I don’t know,’ said Sue thoughtfully, ‘which I would rather. But those poor people haven’t either, have they?’

“‘Not enough,’ said the cobbler. ‘They manage to pick up enough to keep them alive somehow.’—And he sighed, for the subject came near home.

“‘Father,’ said Sue, ‘I don’t believe God will let us starve.’

“‘I do not think he will, my dear,’ said the cobbler.

“‘Then why do you sigh?’

“‘Because I deserve that he should, I believe,’ said the cobbler, hanging his head. ‘I deserve it, for not trusting him better. ‘_Casting all your care upon him, for he careth for you._’ Ah, my dear, we can’t get along without running to our upper storehouse pretty often.’

“‘Father, I guess God don’t mean we should.’

“‘That’s just it!’ said the cobbler. ‘That is just, no doubt, what he means. Well dear, let’s learn the lesson he sets us.’

“‘Then, father,’ said Sue, ‘don’t you think we have a good little house? It’s large enough, and it’s warm.’

“‘Yes dear,’ said the cobbler; ‘some of those poor people we were talking about would think themselves as well off as kings if they had such a house to live in as this.’

“‘And it is in a pleasant place, father, where there are a great many kind people.’

“‘I hope there are,’ said the cobbler, who was thinking at the moment how Mr. Shipham had put him off, and Mr. Dill had dodged him, and Mr. Binch had fought every one of his moderate charges.

“‘Why, father!’ said Sue, ‘there’s Mrs. Lucy every day sends things to mother; and Mrs. Binch gave you the fish; and Mrs. Jackson came and washed ever so many times; and—and Mrs. Gelatin sent the pudding and other things for mother, you know.’

“‘Well, dear,’ said the cobbler,—‘yes,—it seems that woman-kind is more plenty here, at any rate, than man-kind.’

“‘Why, father?’ said Sue.

“‘I hope you’ll never know, dear,’ he answered. ‘It was a foolish speech of mine.’

“‘And I’m sure it’s a blessing, father, that we have so many things sent us for mother,—she has almost as much as she wants, and things we couldn’t get. Now, Mrs. Lucy’s soup,—you don’t know how nice it was. I tasted just the least drop in the spoon; and mother had enough of it for to-day and to-morrow. And then the doctor says she’ll get well by and by; and that will be a blessing.’

“It was a blessing so far off, that both the cobbler and his little daughter looked grave as they thought about it.

“‘And I’m well, father, and you’re well,’ said Sue, pleasantly.

“‘Thank God!’ said the cobbler.

“‘And father, don’t you think it’s a little blessing to live near the sea? and to have the beautiful beach to walk upon, and see the waves come tumbling in, and smell the fresh wind? We used to go so often, and maybe by and by we shall again. Don’t you think it is a great deal pleasanter than it would be if Beachhead was away off in the country, out of sight of the water?’

“‘Ah, Sue,’ said her father,—‘I don’t know;—I’ve lived a good piece of my life in one of those in-shore places, and I didn’t want to hear the sea roar then-a-days, and I could get along without the smell of salt water. No,—you don’t know what you are talking about exactly; every sort of place that the Lord has made has its own prettiness and pleasantness; and so the sea has; but I love the green pasture-fields as well as I do the green field of water, to this day.’

“‘But one might be in a place where there wasn’t the sea nor the pasture-fields either, father.’

“‘So one might,’ said the cobbler. ‘Yes, there are plenty such places. The sea _is_ a blessing. I was thinking of my old home in Connecticut; but the world isn’t all green hills and sea-shore,—there’s something else in it—something else. Yes, dear, I love those big waves, too.’

“‘And then, father,’ said Sue, laying her hand on his breast, ‘we come back to the best things,—that you were beginning with.’

“‘Ay,’ said the cobbler, clasping his arm round her; and for a little space they sat silent and looked into the fire,—and then he went on.

“‘Poor as we sit here, and weak and dying as we know we are, we know that we have a tabernacle on high,—a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens. It won’t matter much, Sue, when we get there—’

“_What_ would not matter the cobbler did not say; there was something came in his throat that stopped him.

“‘It won’t matter, father,’ said Sue, softly.

“They sat still a good little while; the flame of the bits of brands in the chimney leaped up and down, burned strong and then fell outright; and the red coals glowed and glimmered in the place of it, but with less and less power.

“‘Now, Sue, let’s read,’ said the cobbler on a sudden.

“She got up, and he put on the coals two or three pieces of light stuff, which soon blazed up. While he was doing this, Sue brought the Bible. Then she took her former place in her father’s arms; and he opened the book and read by the firelight, pausing at almost every sentence,—

“‘‘_Praise ye the Lord_’—We will do that, Sue,’ said the cobbler,—‘for ever.’

“‘‘_Blessed is the man that feareth the Lord that delighteth greatly in his commandments._’’

“‘You do that, father,’ said Sue, softly.

“‘I do fear him; I do delight in his commandments,’ said the poor cobbler. ‘I might a great deal more. But see how it goes on.’

“‘‘_His seed shall be mighty upon earth; the generation of the upright shall be blessed._’ No doubt of it: only let us see that we are upright, my child.’

“‘‘_Wealth and riches shall be in his house._’ So they are, Sue; aren’t we rich?’

“‘Yes father. But don’t you think that means the other kind of riches, too?’

“‘I don’t know,’ said the cobbler; ‘if it does, we shall have them. But I don’t know, daughter; see,—