't, that is. It comes frae a tanneree
nearby. It's no an ill smell to them 'at's used til't; and ye wad
hardly believe me, sir, but I smell the clover throuw 't. Maybe I'm
preejudized, seein' but for the tan-pits I couldna weel drive my trade;
but sittin' here frae mornin' to nicht, I get a kin' o' a habit o'
luikin' oot for my blessin's. To recognize an auld blessin' 's 'maist
better nor to get a new ane. A pair o' shune weel cobblet 's whiles
full better nor a new pair."

"They are that," said Donal; "but I dinna jist see hoo yer seemile
applies."

"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."

"It's a some auld-farrand joke," said the cobbler, "but the fun intil a
thing doesna weir oot ony mair nor the poetry or the trowth intil't."

"Who will say there was no providence in the loss of my shoe-sole