natural proceedings in the world. On that
second occasion, when she had opened the door and palpitatingly climbed
to the loft, the second batch of children were finishing their midday
meal,--rather more joyously, she thought, than before,--and Insall
himself was stooping over a small boy whom he had taken away from the
table. He did not notice her at once, and Janet watched them. The child
had a cough, his extreme thinness was emphasized by the coat he wore,
several sizes too large for him.

"You come along with me, Marcus, I guess I can fit you out," Insall was
saying, when he looked up and saw Janet.

"Why, if it isn't Miss Bumpus! I thought you'd forgotten us."

"Oh no," she protested. "I wanted to come."

"Then why didn't you?"

"Well, I have come," she said, with a little sigh, and he did not press
her further. And she refrained from offering any conventional excuse,
such as that of being interested in the children. She had come to see
him, and such was the faith with which he inspired her--now that she was
once more in his presence--that she made no attempt to hide the fact.

"You've never seen my clothing store, have you?" he asked. And with the
child's hand in his he led the way into a room at the rear of the loft. A
kit of carpenter's tools was on the floor, and one wall was lined with
box-like compartments made of new wood, each with its label in neat
lettering indicating the articles contained therein. "Shoes?" he
repeated, as he ran his eye down the labels and suddenly opened a drawer.
"Here we are, Marcus. Sit down there on the bench, and take off the shoes
you have on."

The boy had one of those long faces of the higher Jewish type,
intelligent, wistful. He seemed dazed by Insall's kindness. The shoes he
wore were those of an adult, but cracked and split, revealing the cotton
stocking and here and there the skin. His little blue hands fumbled with
the knotted strings that served for facings until Insall, producing a
pocket knife, deftly cut the strings.

"Those are summer shoes, Marcus--well ventilated."

"They're by me since August," said the boy.

"And now the stockings," prompted Insall. The old ones, wet, discoloured,
and torn, were stripped off, and thick, woollen ones substituted. Insall,
casting his eye over the open drawer, chose a pair of shoes that had been
worn, but which were stout and serviceable, and taking one in his hand
knelt down before the child. "Let's see how good a guesser