One day Mr. Walters came in from the upper shop with a pair of shoes in his hand, which he told our hero to carry to Professor Stewart’s, No. 200 ——­ street.  He obeyed at once, for he was glad to breathe the open air; but the walk was not productive of the same pleasure as formerly.  His mood was sad and his step feeble; although the air was only clear and bracing, it sent a chill through his weakened frame, turning what had once been his favourite recreation into positive pain.  The variety met with in the streets had no power to attract his attention; the pictures in the windows had lost their charms; the flashing waters of the noble bay covered with vessels, from whose mast-heads floated the flags of many nations, failed to awaken his admiration; it requires lightness of heart to enjoy the beauty spread around us.

Thus, depressed in body and spirit, he wandered on, mechanically, noticing nothing until he had nearly reached No. 200.  Some one called him.  It was little Ned Graham, who, as usual, was getting pieces of boards and chips at a new building which was going up.  Very thin indeed was his clothing, and far from healthy were his looks; but the natural buoyancy, which even the hard hand of poverty could not entirely crush, remained, and his whole countenance lighted up at the sight of his friend William.

“What now, Ned?” said the latter as a ray of cheerfulness shot over his sad heart, on seeing the happiness meeting with himself gave to the boy; “where are you going so far from home, bare-footed and half bare-legged, on such a cold day as this?”

“My feet are a little red,” said Ned, looking down at his red-hued supporters; “but I don’t mind it much, when I can get such heaps of wood for the carrying.  There was a fire up our way not long ago, and I got ever so much.  We have a great pile now, and grandmother can keep the fire going.  I want to carry all I can before the snow comes, for I don’t expect to have any shoes.  But why have you stayed away so long?  Mrs. Bradley gave us the pennies you sent, but grandmother said she ‘wanted to see yourself to thank you.’”

“I have done nothing worth thanks, Ned,” said William.  “I only wish I could.”

“Grandmother said you had been a good friend to us, although you are but a boy, and only a shoemaker’s ‘’prentice,’” rejoined Ned; “for you did not only send us the pennies, but Mrs. Bradley too.  She has been so good to us; and when we thank her, she says we ought rather to thank you.  She gave me these trousers; and although they are too short, I do not care for that, or that the street boys call me ’duck legs.’”

“It is our heavenly Father whom you ought to thank, rather than either of us,” added William, not noticing the last part of the speech; “but here is No. 200; stay; let me see.  I do believe it is the very house in front of which I dropped the shoes; that is certainly the window where the old gentleman stood.”