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And I saw that it was indeed himself but how aged and wan! And never before had I heard him mention his brother. Much shocked, I murmured, “Oh! I am sorry!” “Yes,” he answered, “he was a good man, he made a good bood. But he is dead.” And he touched the top of his head, where the hair had suddenly gone as thin as it had been on that of his poor brother, to indicate, I suppose, the cause of his death. “Do you wand any boods?” And he held up the leather in his hand. “ld’s a beaudiful biece.” I ordered several pairs. It was very long before they came—but they were better than ever. One simply could not wear them out. And soon after that I went abroad. It was over a year before I was again in London. And the first shop I went to was my old friend’s. I had left a man of sixty; I came back to one of seventy-five, pinched and worn, who genuinely, this time, did not at first know me. “Do you wand any boods?” he said. “I can make dem quickly; id is a zlack dime.” I answered, “Please, please! I want boots all around—every kind.” I had given those boots up when one evening they came. One by one I tried them on. In shape and fit, in finish and quality of leather they were thebesthehadevermade.Iflewdownstairs,wrote a cheque and posted it at once with my own hand. A week later, passing the little street, I thought I would go in and tell him how splendidly the new boots fitted. But when I came to where his shop had been, his name was gone. I went in very much disturbed. In the shop, Quality there was a young man with an English face. 55