“Well, I must call with en the first thing to-morrow.  And I’ll empt my pocket o’ this last too, if you don’t mind, Mrs. Dewy.”  He drew forth a last, and placed it on a table at his elbow.  The eyes of three or four followed it.

“Well,” said the shoemaker, seeming to perceive that the interest the object had excited was greater than he had anticipated, and warranted the last’s being taken up again and exhibited; “now, whose foot do ye suppose this last was made for?  It was made for Geoffrey Day’s father, over at Yalbury Wood.  Ah, many’s the pair o’ boots he’ve had off the last!  Well, when ’a died, I used the last for Geoffrey, and have ever since, though a little doctoring was wanted to make it do.  Yes, a very queer natured last it is now, ’a b’lieve,” he continued, turning it over caressingly.  “Now, you notice that there” (pointing to a lump of leather bradded to the toe), “that’s a very bad bunion that he’ve had ever since ’a was a boy.  Now, this remarkable large piece” (pointing to a patch nailed to the side), “shows a’ accident he received by the tread of a horse, that squashed his foot a’most to a pomace.  The horseshoe cam full-butt on this point, you see.  And so I’ve just been over to Geoffrey’s, to know if he wanted his bunion altered or made bigger in the new pair I’m making.”

During the latter part of this speech, Mr. Penny’s left hand wandered towards the cider-cup, as if the hand had no connection with the person speaking; and bringing his sentence to an abrupt close, all but the extreme margin of the bootmaker’s face was eclipsed by the circular brim of the vessel.

“However, I was going to say,” continued Penny, putting down the cup, “I ought to have called at the school”—­here he went groping again in the depths of his pocket—­“to leave this without fail, though I suppose the first thing to-morrow will do.”

He now drew forth and placed upon the table a boot—­small, light, and prettily shaped—­upon the heel of which he had been operating.

“The new schoolmistress’s!”

“Ay, no less, Miss Fancy Day; as neat a little figure of fun as ever I see, and just husband-high.”

“Never Geoffrey’s daughter Fancy?” said Bowman, as all glances present converged like wheel-spokes upon the boot in the centre of them.

“Yes, sure,” resumed Mr. Penny, regarding the boot as if that alone were his auditor; “’tis she that’s come here schoolmistress.  You knowed his daughter was in training?”

“Strange, isn’t it, for her to be here Christmas night, Master Penny?”

“Yes; but here she is, ’a b’lieve.”

“I know how she comes here—­so I do!” chirruped one of the children.

“Why?” Dick inquired, with subtle interest.

“Pa’son Maybold was afraid he couldn’t manage us all to-morrow at the dinner, and he talked o’ getting her jist to come over and help him hand about the plates, and see we didn’t make pigs of ourselves; and that’s what she’s come for!”