raised it above that of any simple animal that seeks a journey's end.
His head was up and steady, as if he bore a treasure-jar on it, his
back flat as a soldier's; he swung his little arms at his sides and
advanced with proud and even pace.

Jerome's old gaping shoes were nicely greased, and he himself had
made a last endeavor to close the worst apertures with a bit of
shoemaker's thread. He had had quite a struggle with himself, before
starting, regarding these forlorn old shoes and another pair, spick
and span and black, and heavily clamping with thick new soles, which
Uncle Ozias Lamb had sent over for him to wear to the funeral.

"He sent 'em over, an' says you may wear 'em to the funeral, if
you're real careful," his aunt Belinda had said, and then added, with
her gentle sniff of deprecation and apology: "He says you'll have to
give 'em back again--they ain't to keep. He says he's got so
behindhand lately he 'ain't got any tithes to give to the Lord. He
says he 'ain't got nothing that will divide up into ten parts, 'cause
he 'ain't got more'n half one whole part himself." Belinda Lamb
repeated her husband's bitter saying out of his heart of poverty with
a scared look, and yet with a certain relish and soft aping of his
defiant manner.

"I don't want anybody to give when I can't give back again," Ann had
returned. "Ozias has always done full as much for us as we've done
for him." Then she had charged Jerome to be careful of the shoes,
and not stub the toes, so his uncle would have difficulty in selling
them.

"I'll wear my old shoes," Jerome had replied, sullenly, but then had