a local shopkeeper, where the daughter was duly fitted, so they went away happy, because they jointly possessed a new pair of "seven-and-elevenpenny's." But whether the widow ever wore them, I am more than doubtful. It is the self-denial of the very poor that touches me. It is so wonderful, so common, perhaps, that we do not notice it. It is so unobtrusive and so genuine. We never find poor widows jingling money-boxes in the streets and demanding public contributions because it is their "self-denial week." Their self-denial lasts through life, but the public are not informed of it. I fancy that I should have had an impossible task if I had asked, or tried to persuade, the widow to go into the streets and solicit help because she had denied herself a pair of boots for the sake of her afflicted daughter. Oh, it is very beautiful, but, alas! it is very sad. The poor couple worked at home in their one room when they had work to do and when the daughter's fits did not prevent. They made "ladies' belts," and starved at the occupation. Another widow had four young children; her feet were partly encased in a flimsy pair of broken patent slippers. She, too, had her note to the shoemaker's. A deep snow fell during the night, and on the morning of Boxing Day it lay six inches deep. I thought of the widows and their sound boots, and felt comforted; but my complacency soon vanished. I was out early in the streets, warmly clad, spurning the snow--in fact, rather enjoying it--and thinking, as I have said, with some pleasure of the widows and their boots, when I met the widow who has four young children. She was for hurrying past me, but I stopped her and spoke. "A bitter morning, this." "Yes, sir; is it not a deep snow?" "I am so glad you have sound boots. You had them just in time. Your old slippers would not have been of much use a morning like this." "No, sir." "Did you get what suited you?" "Yes, sir." "Fit you all right?" "Yes, sir." "Did you have buttons or lace-up?" "Lace-up, sir." "That's right. Lift up the front of your dress. I want to see whether the shopman has given you a good pair." She began to cry, and, to my astonishment, the old broken patent slippers were revealed, half buried in the snow. "Don't be cross," she burst out. "I did not mean to deceive you. I got two pairs for the children: they wanted them worse than I do."