e something to
do to pass the time. Softly we slipped through the iron gate; lightly we
hastened along the shining wet street; under the shadow of the Cathedral,
whose spire seemed to taper to the sky; down narrow, winding Henwood Street
till we reached the cobbler's shop.

Martindale was standing in the open door his face raised as though he were
drinking in the fragrance of the morning. A chorus of bird song came from
inside.

"Hallo, Mr. Martindale," Angel shouted.

"What do you suppose? Father's coming home."

"He'll be here In less than two hours," I panted.

The cobbler put a dark hand on a shoulder of each. "That's grand news,
little masters," he said. "But I hope he won't take you so far away that I
shall never see you. The birds like you too. They never sing so loud as
when you are in the shop."

While he was speaking we heard footsteps coming quickly down Henwood street
around the corner. They were quick, sharp footsteps that rang on the frosty
air. "It's curious," said the cobbler, "how footsteps sound here. I think
it's the Cathedral walls that give that ringing sound."

We turned to watch for the approaching pedestrian. We wondered who he was
that walked with such an eager, springing step. He turned the corner. He
faced us. Then he laughed out loud and said, "Hello!"

We were, for a second, simply staggered. We made incoherent noises like
young animals. Then we were snatched by rough tweed arms, a small, stiff
moustache rasped our cheeks, and--"Father!" we squealed, at last, in
chorus.

"I found I could catch an early train," he said, "so I just hopped on, for
I was in a desperate hurry to see you. What are you doing here, at this
hour?" He stared at the cobbler.

"This is Mr. Martindale," I explained. "He mends our boots, and tells us
stories, and he's got a bird named Coppertoes."

"So you are a friend of my boys," said father. "Ay. And they're grand
little lads, sir. I have a daughter of my own I'm very proud of, sir. She
was lost for seventeen years, and your sons helped me to find her."

His daughter came to the door then to call him to breakfast. She had a
yellow braid over each shoulder, and Coppertoes was sitting on her wrist
with a piece of chickweed in his bill. Father stopped to admire them both.

"By George," he said, when we had left them, "if all your friends are as
interesting as those, I should like to meet them."

"They are that," I said, happily, "and here's another of them