“Come round to my office and let me see them,” said I.

“I am going to take these shoes to the binder’s,”—­he had a package of “uppers” in his hand—­“and must be back in twenty minutes, or Mr. Maxwell says he will give me the strap.”  The boy made this reply, and then hobbled on as fast as he could.

“Stop, stop, my lad,” I called after him.  “I want you for a little while, and will see that Mr. Maxwell does not give you the strap.  You must come to my office and get something done for your feet.”

“They are very bad,” he said, turning round, and looking down at them with a pitiable expression on his young face.

“I know they are, and you must have something done for them immediately.”

“Let me go to the binder’s first.”

“Very well.  Go to the binder’s.  But be sure to come to my office as you return; I want to see you particularly.”

My words made the blood rush to the child’s pale face.  Hope again was springing up in his bosom.

In about ten minutes he entered my office.  His step was lighter, but I could see that each footfall gave him pain.  The first thing I did was to examine his feet.  They were in a shocking condition.  One of them had cracked open in several places, and the wounds had become running sores; other parts were red and shining, and much swollen, I dressed them carefully.  When I came to replace his shoes, I found them so dilapidated and out of shape, as to be no protection to his feet whatever, but rather tending to fret them, and liable to rub off the bandages I had put on.  To remedy this, I sent my man out for a new pair, of soft leather.  When these were put on, and he stood upon, his feet, he said that they did not hurt him at all.  I needed not his declaration of the fact to convince me of this, for the whole expression of his face had changed.  His eyes were no longer fixed and sad; nor were his brows drawn down, nor his lips compressed.

“I think you told me that your name was Miller?” I said to him, as he stood looking earnestly in my face after the dressing of his feet was completed.

“Yes, sir,” he replied.

“And that your mother was dead?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I think you said that W——­was your uncle?”

“Yes, sir.  Mother told me that he was my uncle.”

“Is your father living?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Did your mother ever speak to you about him?”

“No, sir.”

“Then you can’t tell whether he is living or not?”

“No, sir; but I suppose he is dead.”

“Why do you think so?”

“Because I never saw him, nor heard mother speak of him.”

“You are sure your name is Miller?”

“Oh yes, sir.”

“And that Mr. W——­is your uncle?”

“My mother said he was.”

“Did you ever see him?”

“No, sir.”

“Why don’t you go, to see him, and tell him who you are?”