Tommie said nothing more, but a week afterwards he beckoned to Maggie with an important air as she went by.
“You come here,” he said briefly.
Maggie went into the stall, and he reached down from a nail a pair of tiny, neatly finished clogs. They had jaunty brass-bound toes, and a row of brass nails all round where the leather joined the wooden sole, and on the instep there gleamed a pair of smart brass clasps with a pattern chased on them.
“Fur her,” said Tommie as he gave them to Maggie. As he did so the baby stretched out her hands to the bright clasps.
“See!” exclaimed the delighted Maggie; “she likes ’em ever so. Oh, Master Monk, how good of yo’!”
“Them clasps is oncommon,” said Tommie, regarding his work thoughtfully, his blue eyes twinkling with satisfaction, “I cam’ at ’em by chance like.”
Maggie had now taken off her baby’s shoe, and fitted the clog on to the soft little foot.
“Ain’t they bonnie?” she said.
The baby leaned forward and, seizing one toe in each hand, rocked herself gently to and fro.
Tommie looked on approvingly.