It chanced that when Henry, in pursuance of his over-night resolve, made his way the following afternoon through a dingy little street, and knocked on the door of a dingy little house, bearing upon a brass plate the legend “Boots neatly repaired,” Mr. Tipping was engaged in giving one of those very music lessons.  A dingy little maid-of-all-work opened the door, and said that Mrs. Tipping was out shopping, but would be back soon.  From the front parlour came the lifeless tum-tumming of the piano, and Mr. Tipping’s voice gruffly counting time to the cheerless five-finger exercises of a very evident beginner.

“One—­two—­three!  One—­two—­three!  One—­two—­three!” went Mr. Tipping’s voice, with an occasional infusion of savagery.

“But Mr. Tipping is at home?” said Henry.  “I will wait till he is disengaged.  I will make myself comfortable in the kitchen,” (Henry knew his way about at Aunt Tipping’s, and remembered there was only one front parlour) adding, with something of pride, “I’m Mrs. Tipping’s nephew, you know.”

Presently the torture in the front parlour was at an end; and, as Mr. Tipping was about to turn upstairs to the little back room where he mended his shoes, Henry emerged upon him from the kitchen.  They had had some talks on books and the general misgovernment of the universe,—­for Mr. Tipping really was something of an “atheist,”—­on Henry’s occasional visits, and were no strangers to each other.

“Why, Henry, lad, whoever expected to see you!  Your aunt’s out at present; but she’ll be back soon.  Come into the parlour.”

“If you don’t mind, Uncle Tipping, I’d rather come upstairs with you.  I love the smell of the leather and the sight of all those sharp little knives, and the black, shiny ‘dubbin,’ do you call it?  And we can have a talk about books till aunt comes home.”

“All right, lad.  But it’s a dusty place, and there’s hardly a corner to sit down in.”

So up they went to a little room where, in a chaos of boots mended on one hand, and boots to mend on the other, sheets of leather lying about, in one corner a great tubfull of water in which the leather was soaked,—­an old boyish fascination of Henry’s,—­Mr. Tipping spent the greater part of his days.  He sat on a low bench near a window, along which ran a broad sill full of tools.  On this, too, lay an opened book, into which Mr. Tipping would dip now and again, when he could safely leave the boot he was engaged upon to the mechanical skill of his hands.  At one end of the tool-shelf was a small collection of books, a dozen or so shabby volumes, though these were far from constituting Mr. Tipping’s complete library.