go out much till after
it's dusk, nobody sees them."

"But if you should get your feet wet, and catch cold?"

"Ah! that might be the death of me!" said Hector. "I really must make
myself a pair. Well now--let me see--as soon as I have mended those two
pairs--I can do them all to-morrow--I will begin. And I'll tell you
what," he added, after a thoughtful pause, "if you'll come to me the day
after to-morrow, I will take that skin, and cut out a pair of shoes for
myself, and you shall see how I do it, and everything about the making
of them;--yes, you shall do some part of them yourself, and that shall
be your first lesson in shoemaking."

"But Dolly's shoes!" suggested Willie.

"Dolly can wait a bit. She won't take _her_ death of cold from wet feet.
And let me tell you it is harder to make a small pair well than a large
pair. You will do Dolly's ever so much better after you know how to make
a pair for me."

CHAPTER VI.

HOW WILLIE LEARNED TO READ BEFORE HE KNEW HIS LETTERS.

The next day his thoughts, having nothing particular to engage them,
kept brooding over two things. These two things came together all at
once, and a resolution was the consequence. I shall soon explain what I
mean.

The one thing was, that Hector had shown considerable surprise when
he found that Willie could not read. Now Willie was not in the least
ashamed that he could not read: why should he be? It was nowhere written
in the catechism he had learnt that it was his duty to be able to read;
and if the catechism had merely forgotten to mention it, his father and
mother would have told him. Neither was it a duty he ought to have
known of himself--for then he would have known it. So why should he be
ashamed?

People are often ashamed of what they need not be ashamed of. Again,
they are often not at all ashamed of what they ought to be ashamed of,
and will turn up their faces to the sun when they ought to hide them in
the dust. If, for instance, Willie had ever put on a sulky face when his
mother asked him to hold the baby for her, that would have been a thing
for shame of which the skin of his face might well try to burn itself
off; but not to be able to read before he had even been made to think
about it, was not at all a thing to be ashamed of: it would have been
more of a shame to be ashamed. Now that it had been put into his head,
however, to think what a good thing reading was, all this would apply no
longer. It was a very d