“Those are summer shoes, Marcus—­well ventilated.”

“They’re by me since August,” said the boy.

“And now the stockings,” prompted Insall.  The old ones, wet, discoloured, and torn, were stripped off, and thick, woollen ones substituted.  Insall, casting his eye over the open drawer, chose a pair of shoes that had been worn, but which were stout and serviceable, and taking one in his hand knelt down before the child.  “Let’s see how good a guesser I am,” he said, loosening the strings and turning back the tongue, imitating good-humouredly the deferential manner of a salesman of footwear as he slipped on the shoe.  “Why, it fits as if it were made for you!  Now for the other one.  Yes, your feet are mates—­I know a man who wears a whole size larger on his left foot.”  The dazed expression remained on the boy’s face.  The experience was beyond him.  “That’s better,” said Insall, as he finished the lacing.  “Keep out of the snow, Marcus, all you can.  Wet feet aren’t good for a cough, you know.  And when you come in to supper a nice doctor will be here, and we’ll see if we can’t get rid of the cough.”

The boy nodded.  He got to his feet, stared down at the shoes, and walked slowly toward the door, where he turned.

“Thank you, Mister Insall,” he said.

And Insall, still sitting on his heels, waved his hand.

“It is not to mention it,” he replied.  “Perhaps you may have a clothing store of your own some day—­who knows!” He looked up at Janet amusedly and then, with a spring, stood upright, his easy, unconscious pose betokening command of soul and body.  “I ought to have kept a store,” he observed.  “I missed my vocation.”

“It seems to me that you missed a great many vocations,” she replied.  Commonplaces alone seemed possible, adequate.  “I suppose you made all those drawers yourself.”

He bowed in acknowledgment of her implied tribute.  With his fine nose and keen eyes—­set at a slightly downward angle, creased at the corners —­with his thick, greying hair, despite his comparative youth he had the look one associates with portraits of earlier, patriarchal Americans....  These calls of Janet’s were never of long duration.  She had fallen into the habit of taking her lunch between one and two, and usually arrived when the last installment of youngsters were finishing their meal; sometimes they were filing out, stopping to form a group around Insall, who always managed to say something amusing—­something pertinent and good-naturedly personal.  For he knew most of them by name, and had acquired a knowledge of certain individual propensities and idiosyncrasies that delighted their companions.