leather shoes made just like other people's."

"Oh, Grandpapa," cried Phronsie, leaning forward to peer into his face,
"don't let them leave off the wooden shoes, please."

"I can't make them wear anything but what they want to," said old Mr.
King, with a laugh; "but don't be troubled, child, you'll see all the
wooden shoes you desire, in Rotterdam, and The Hague, too, for that
matter."

"Shall I?" cried Phronsie, nestling back again quite pleased.
"Grandpapa, I wish I could wear wooden shoes," she whispered presently
in a burst of confidence, sticking out her toes to look at them.

"Bless me! you couldn't keep them on," said Mr. King.

"Don't the little Dutch children keep them on?" asked Phronsie. "Oh,
Grandpapa, I think I could; I really think I could," she added
earnestly.

"Yes, they do, because they are born and brought up to it, although,
for the life of me, I don't see how they do it; but you couldn't,
child, you'd fall the first minute and break your nose, most likely."

Phronsie gave a sigh. "Should I, Grandpapa?"

"Yes, quite likely; but I'll tell you what I will do. I will buy you a
pair, and we will take them home. That will be fine, won't it, dear?"

"Yes," said Phronsie, wriggling in delight. Then she sat quite still.