pleased. Didn't they know their business--Good luck
to them, and away!

As he walked along he saw an old woman hobbling
in front of him. She was leaning on a stick and her hand
was red and swollen with rheumatism. She hobbled by
reason of the fact that there were stones in her shapeless
boots. She was draped in the sorriest miscellaneous rags
that could be imagined, and these were knotted together
so intricately that her clothing, having once been attached
to her body, could never again be detached from it. As
she walked she was mumbling and grumbling to herself,
so that her mouth moved round and round in an india-
rubber fashion.

The Philosopher soon caught up on her.

"Good morrow, ma'am," said he.

But she did not hear him: she seemed to be listening
to the pain which the stones in her boots gave her.

"Good morrow, ma'am," said the Philosopher again.

This time she heard him and replied, turning her old,
bleared eyes slowly in his direction--
"Good morrow to yourself, sir," said she, and the
Philosopher thought her old face was a very kindly one.

"What is it that is wrong with you, ma'am?" said he.