him, and the sense that he had not to go out to find his relief, his
resolution was indeed sorely tried; but he felt that to yield would
be to cut his last cable and be swept on the lee-shore of utter
ruin.

Breathless with eager interest, Gibbie watched his father's hands,
and just as the darkness closed in, the boot was finished. His
father rose, and Gibbie, glowing with delight, sprang upon the seat
he had left, while his father knelt upon the floor to try upon the
unaccustomed foot the result from which he had just drawn the last.
Ah, pity! pity! But even Gibbie might by this time have learned to
foresee it! three times already had the same thing happened: the
boot would not go on the foot. The real cause of the failure it
were useless to inquire. Sir George said that, Sunday being the
only day he could give to the boots, before he could finish them,
Gibbie's feet had always outgrown the measure. But it may be Sir
George was not so good a maker as cobbler. That he meant honestly
by the boy I am sure, and not the less sure for the confession I am
forced to make, that on each occasion when he thus failed to fit
him, he sold the boots the next day at a fair price to a ready-made
shop, and drank the proceeds. A stranger thing still was, that,
although Gibbie had never yet worn boot or shoe, his father's
conscience was greatly relieved by the knowledge that he spent his
Sundays in making boots for him. Had he been an ordinary child, and
given him trouble, he would possibly have hated him; as it was, he
had a great though sadly inoperative affection for the boy, which
was an endless good to them both.

After many bootless trials, bootless the feet must remain, and
George, laying the failure down in despair, rose from his knees, and