“Isna gettin’ on a pair o’ auld weel-kent an’ weel men’it shune, ’at winna nip yer feet nor yet shochle, like waukin’ up til a blessin’ ye hae been haein’ for years, only ye didna ken ’t for ane?”
As he spoke, the cobbler lifted a little wizened face and a pair of twinkling eyes to those of the student, revealing a soul as original as his own. He was one of the inwardly inseparable, outwardly far divided company of Christian philosophers, among whom individuality as well as patience is free to work its perfect work. In that glance Donal saw a ripe soul looking out of its tent door, ready to rush into the sunshine of the new life.
He stood for a moment lost in eternal regard of the man. He seemed to have known him for ages. The cobbler looked up again.
“Ye’ll be wantin’ a han’ frae me i’ my ain line, I’m thinkin’!” he said, with a kindly nod towards Donal’s shoeless feet.
“Sma’ doobt!” returned Donal. “I had scarce startit, but was ower far to gang back, whan the sole o’ ae shue cam aff, an’ I had to tramp it wi’ baith my ain.”
“An’ ye thankit the Lord for the auld blessin’ o’ bein’ born an’ broucht up wi’ soles o’ yer ain!”
“To tell the trowth,” answered Donal, “I hae sae mony things to be thankfu’ for, it’s but sma’ won’er I forget mony ane o’ them. But noo, an’ I thank ye for the exhortation, the Lord’s name be praist ’at he gae me feet fit for gangin’ upo’!”
He took his shoes from his back, and untying the string that bound them, presented the ailing one to the cobbler.
“That’s what we may ca’ deith!” remarked the cobbler, slowly turning the invalided shoe.
“Ay, deith it is,” answered Donal; “it’s a sair divorce o’ sole an’ body.”