One hundred pairs of old boots and shoes that have been cast off by the very poor present a deplorable sight--a sight that sets one thinking. Many times I have regretted that I did not call in a photographer before they were hurried off to the local dust-destructor. What a tale they told! or rather what a series of tragedies they revealed! There was a deeply pathetic look about every pair: they looked so woefully, so reproachfully, at me as I contemplated them. They seemed to voice not only their own sufferings, but also the wrongs and privations of the hundred poor widows who had discarded them; for these widows, poor as they were, had cast them off. The boots and shoes seemed to know all about it, and to resent the slight inflicted on them; henceforth even the shambling feet of poor old women were to know them no more. They had not a coy look among them; not an atom of sauciness or independence could I discover; but, crushed and battered, meek and humiliated, they lay side by side, knowing their days were over, and pitifully asking for prompt dissolution. What a mixed lot they were! No two pairs alike. Some of the couples were not pairs, for a freak of fortune had united odd boots in the bond of sufferings and the gall of poverty. Many of them had come down in life; they had seen better days. Well-dressed women had at some time stepped daintily in them, but that was when the sheen of newness was upon them and the days of their youth were not ended. In those days the poor old boots were familiar with parks, squares, and gardens, and well-kept streets of the West; but latterly they have only been too familiar with the slums and the grime of the East. How I wished they could speak and tell of the past! How came it about that, after such a splendid beginning, they had come to such a deplorable end? Had the West End lady died? Had her wardrobe been sold to a dealer? What had been the intermediate life of the boots before they were placed, patched and cobbled, in the dirty window of a fusty little second-hand shop in Hoxton? I know the widow that bought them and something of her life; I can appreciate the effort she made to get possession of them. She paid two shillings and sixpence for them, but not all at once--oh dear, no! Week by week she carried threepence to the man who kept the fusty little shop. He cheerfully received her payments on account, meanwhile, of course, retaining possession of the coveted boots. It took her four months to pay for them, for her payments had not been quite regular. What would have become of the payments made if the widow had died before the completion of purchase, I need not say, but I am quite sure the boots would have speedily reappeared in the shop window. But, after all, I am not sure that the old cobbler was any worse in his dealings with the poor than more respectable people are; for pawnbroking, money-lending, life assurance, and furniture on the hire