Dab colored and hesitated for a moment: but it seemed all right, he
thought; and so he came frankly out with,--

"Thank you, Ham. You always was a prime good fellow. I'll do as much for
you some day. Tell you what I'll do, then: I'll have another suit made
right away, of this other cloth, and have the bill for that one sent to
our folks."

"Do it!" exclaimed Ham. "Do it! You've your mother's orders for that.
She's nothing to do with my gift."

"Splendid!" almost shouted Dab. "Oh, but don't I hope they'll fit!"

"Vit," said the tailor: "vill zay vit? I dell you zay vit you like a
knife. You vait und zee."

Dab failed to get a very clear idea of what the fit would be, but it
made him almost hold his breath to think of it.

After the triumphant visit to the tailor, there was still a necessity
for a call upon the shoemaker, and that was a matter of no small
importance. Dab's feet had always been a mystery and a trial to him. If
his memory contained one record darker than another, it was the endless
history of his misadventures with boots and shoes. He and leather had
been at war from the day he left his creeping-clothes until now. But now
he was promised a pair of shoes that would be sure to fit.

So the question of Dab's personal appearance at the wedding was all
arranged between him and Ham; and Miranda smiled more sweetly than ever
before upon the latter, after she had heard her usually silent brother