"Still, the weather has to du wi' the
smell--wi' the mair or less o' '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.
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