He looked up over the old shoe with eyes that flashed.
“But then—excuse me,” said Donal, “—why shouldna ye haud yer face til ’t, an’ wark openly, i’ the name o’ God?”
“We’re tellt naither to du oor guid warks afore men to be seen o’ them, nor yet to cast oor pearls afore swine. I coont cobblin’ your shoes, sir, a far better wark nor gaein’ to the kirk, an’ I wadna hae ’t seen o’ men. Gien I war warkin’ for poverty, it wad be anither thing.”
This last Donal did not understand, but learned afterwards what the cobbler meant: the day being for rest, the next duty to helping another was to rest himself. To work for fear of starving would be to distrust the Father, and act as if man lived by bread alone.
“Whan I think o’ ’t,” he resumed after a pause, “bein’ Sunday, I’ll tak them hame to ye. Whaur wull ye be?”
“That’s what I wad fain hae ye tell me,” answered Donal. “I had thoucht to put up at the Morven Airms, but there’s something I dinna like aboot the lan’lord. Ken ye ony dacent, clean place, whaur they wad gie me a room to mysel’, an’ no seek mair nor I could pey them?”
“We hae a bit roomie oorsel’s,” said the cobbler, “at the service o’ ony dacent wayfarin’ man that can stan’ the smell, an’ put up wi’ oor w’ys. For peyment, ye can pey what ye think it’s worth. We’re never varra partic’lar.”
“I tak yer offer wi’ thankfu’ness,” answered Donal.
“Weel, gang ye in at that door jist afore ye, an’ ye’ll see the guidwife—there’s nane ither til see. I wad gang wi’ ye mysel’, but I canna, wi’ this shue o’ yours to turn intil a Sunday ane!”
Donal went to the door indicated. It stood wide open; for while the cobbler sat outside at his work, his wife would never shut the door. He knocked, but there came no answer.