"Here, Miss. I ain't got no money, but I'd like badly ter give you them shoes—er—ter show you that I like good singing. Yes, I do, an' ye sing mighty well," he said, looking admiringly at her and getting as red in the face as an over-ripe apple. "I'll surely get a good cuff or two from master for giving them away, but a shoemaker's boy is used to that, and doesn't care a rap if once in a while he takes a good piff, paff, pouff!" With this exclamation of Meyerbeerian bravado, he demonstrated the operatic knowledge of an up-to-date Viennese apprentice.
"HERE, MISS, I AIN'T GOT NO MONEY, BUT I'D LIKE TER GIV YER THEM SHOES."
Christine looked at him with shining eyes. She understood only one thing—that he wanted to give her a pair of shoes, which, in her estimation seemed almost new. She beamed at him so gratefully with her large, dark eyes, that the embarrassed apprentice, who was about two years older than she, felt a hot wave running down his spine. Never had a lovelier face or sweeter eyes smiled so kindly at the bewildered boy.
"They're yourn, an'—ye'd better try 'em on—an' see if they'll fit," he stammered bashfully. This strange, heavenly shyness was a new sensation for the rough apprentice lad. Until this moment he had never known that there existed such an organ as a palpitating heart within his body.
And before Christine knew how, the new shoes were on her feet. Shoes without holes! Goodness! how could it have happened? And without holes!
"I hope I am not dreaming," she murmured to herself, her face aglow.
"Will ye let me go with ye?" asked the simple-hearted boy, his eyes downcast.
"No—not now; but—on Sunday you can come."