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.
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