“Good morrow to yourself, sir,” said she, and the Philosopher thought her old face was a very kindly one.
“What is it that is wrong with you, ma’am?” said he.
“It’s my boots, sir,” she replied. “Full of stones they are, the way I can hardly walk at all, God help me!”
“Why don’t you shake them out?”
“Ah, sure, I couldn’t be bothered, sir, for there are so many holes in the boots that more would get in before I could take two steps, and an old woman can’t be always fidgeting, God help her!”
There was a little house on one side of the road, and when the old woman saw this place she brightened up a little.
“Do you know who lives in that house?” said the Philosopher.
“I do not,” she replied, “but it’s a real nice house with clean windows and a shiny knocker on the door, and smoke in the chimney—I wonder would herself give me a cup of tea now if I asked her—A poor old woman walking the roads on a stick! and maybe a bit of meat, or an egg perhaps....”
“You could ask,” suggested the Philosopher gently.
“Maybe I will, too,” said she, and she sat down by the road just outside the house and the Philosopher also sat down.