“Then why didn’t you?”

“Well, I have come,” she said, with a little sigh, and he did not press her further.  And she refrained from offering any conventional excuse, such as that of being interested in the children.  She had come to see him, and such was the faith with which he inspired her—­now that she was once more in his presence—­that she made no attempt to hide the fact.

“You’ve never seen my clothing store, have you?” he asked.  And with the child’s hand in his he led the way into a room at the rear of the loft.  A kit of carpenter’s tools was on the floor, and one wall was lined with box-like compartments made of new wood, each with its label in neat lettering indicating the articles contained therein.  “Shoes?” he repeated, as he ran his eye down the labels and suddenly opened a drawer.  “Here we are, Marcus.  Sit down there on the bench, and take off the shoes you have on.”

The boy had one of those long faces of the higher Jewish type, intelligent, wistful.  He seemed dazed by Insall’s kindness.  The shoes he wore were those of an adult, but cracked and split, revealing the cotton stocking and here and there the skin.  His little blue hands fumbled with the knotted strings that served for facings until Insall, producing a pocket knife, deftly cut the strings.

“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.”