He had ornamented his little tree to the best of his ability, by tying to the branches bits of coloured leather which he had cut into stars and other shapes, with some ends of ribbon picked from the odds and ends of binding used in the upper shop.  He had also bought a candle or two, which he cut in pieces, and fastened them on by bits of wire.  The other articles, together with some matches, he placed in a little basket of his own, and then putting his green branch under his coat, thrusting the shoes he had made for little Ned in his pocket, and carrying those intended for Mrs. Bradley in his hand, he set forth up Broadway, not envying one individual of the splendidly dressed crowd that was thronging the great thoroughfare.

He found Mrs. Bradley in the kitchen, fully occupied in all the mysteries of boiling, baking, and stewing, preliminary to the setting down of a country Christmas supper.  A large plate of mince-pies, flanked by smaller ones filled with cakes of various shapes and sizes, stood temptingly conspicuous on the table.  Sausages were frying in a pan on the store, and a large coffee-pot sent forth its steam, at once savoury and inviting.  “I am glad you have brought the shoes, Bill,” said the good woman, continuing to bustle about; “your master is certainly very punctual, and his shoes last as long again as those you buy.  I suppose you do not have much Christmas doings at your house—­I am so busy just now; a whole tribe of country cousins have come down the river to spend the holidays, and I am bustling to get the supper over.  But what have you there under your coat?”

“Well, now, Bill,” said she, when William told her, “if you ain’t a good boy there is no such thing in the world.  Open your basket, and I will give you something for the old woman and your young ones too.”

A sausage or two, a pie, some tarts, and sundry other good things, were speedily transferred to William’s basket, and with such unsparing hand, that it was filled to overflowing—­in that respect resembling the heart of our little shoemaker, which was now filled with delight.  He forgot that he was suffering from bodily ailment, that the past had been dark and comfortless, that on the morrow no new cheering was to be expected, but his sole enjoyment would be the remembrance of the transient gleam of sunshine now falling on his gloomy path.  He tried to speak his thanks, but she would not listen.  “It is nothing,” she said; “we have to work hard, but still we have plenty, and why should we not give to others who have so little, and are not able to earn?  Now do go along about your business, Bill, and let me take up the supper, for the chicken is stewing to rags;” and, quite as happy herself as she had made the orphan boy, she proceeded to finish her culinary work.

A few minutes’ walk brought William to the room occupied by old Mrs. Graham.  It was a poor place, in a basement half under ground.  Cold and damp, it was altogether unsuitable for an invalid; but she said she liked it, for the other dwellers in the house, mostly washer-women, were decently-behaved people, and as kind to her as their means would allow them to be.  Suffering so much from rheumatism that she was confined to her bed, she was, however, not idle, but propped up and busy knitting, when William entered.