"May I come in?" asked the Cobbler, outside the door. "Certainly come
in," said Gentleman Waife. Sophy looked wistfully at the aperture, and
sighed to see that Merle was alone. She crept up to him.

"Will they not come?" she whispered. "I hope so, pretty one; it be n't
ten yet."

"Take a pipe, Merle," said Gentleman Waife, with a Grand Comedian air.

"No, thank you kindly; I just looked in to ask if I could do anything for
ye, in case--in case ye must go tomorrow."

"Nothing: our luggage is small, and soon packed. Sophy has the money to
discharge the meaner part of our debt to you."

"I don't value that," said the Cobbler, colouring.

"But we value your esteem," said Mr. Waife, with a smile that would have
become a field-marshal. "And so, Merle, you think, if I am a broken-down
vagrant, it must be put to the long account of the celestial bodies!"

"Not a doubt of it," returned the Cobbler, solemnly. "I wish you would
give me date and place of Sophy's birth that's what I want; I'd take her
horryscope. I'm sure she'd be lucky."

"I'd rather not, please," said Sophy, timidly.

"Rather not?--very odd. Why?"