little nearer to watch the pretty sight. A child's perambulator--a
very shabby, rickety concern--had been pushed against the fence, and
its occupant, a girl, evidently a cripple, was throwing corn to the
eager winged creatures. Two or three, more fearless than the others,
had flown on to the perambulator and were pecking out of the child's
hands. Presently she caught one and hugged it to her thin little
bosom. "Oh dad, look here--oh daddy, see, its dear little head is
all green and purple. I want to kiss it--I do--I love it so."

"Better put it down, Kit--the poor thing is scared," returned the
man, and the child reluctantly let it fly. It made straight for the
distant roofs behind them, but the rest of the pigeons still
strutted and pecked round the perambulator with tiny mincing steps,
like court ladies practising the minuet. Malcolm looked on with
unabated relish--the homely idyll always charmed him.

He had never spoken to the crippled child or her father, although
they had often crossed his path at this hour; nevertheless he
regarded them as old friends.

More than once he had made up his mind to accost them, but he was
reserved by nature and it cost him an effort to take the initiative.
In his case silence was always golden; in his own cynical language,
he refused to tout for a cheap popularity by saying pleasant things
to strangers.

They were not an attractive pair. The cobbler was a thin meagre
little man, with a round back, bow-legs, a sharp pinched face, and
pale blue eyes that seemed to look dejectedly at life.