enough to keep out evil spirits.

"I think it's a fine thing to have to make nice new shoes," said Willie;
"but I don't think I should like to mend them when they are soppy and
muddy and out of shape."

"If you would take your share in the general business, you mustn't be
particular. It won't do to be above your business, as they say: for my
part, I would say _below_ your business. There's those boots in the
corner now. They belong to your papa. And they come next. Don't you
think it's an honour to keep the feet of such a good man dry and warm as
he goes about from morning to night comforting people? Don't you think
it's an honour to mend boots for _him_, even if they should be dirty?"

"Oh, yes--for _papa_!" said Willie, as if his papa must be an exception
to any rule.

"Well," resumed Hector, "look at these great lace-boots. I shall have to
fill the soles of them full of hobnails presently. They belong to the
best ploughman in the parish--John Turnbull. Don't you think it's an
honour to mend boots for a man who makes the best bed for the corn to
die in?"

"I thought it was to grow in," said Willie.

"All the same," returned Hector. "When it dies it grows--and not till
then, as you will read in the New Testament. Isn't it an honour, I say,
to mend boots for John Turnbull?"

"Oh, yes--for John Turnbull! I know John," said Willie, as if it made