I learned afterwards from the shopman that she added a shilling to the cost of a pair for herself, and the shopman, being kind-hearted, gave her another shilling, so she went home with her two pairs of strong boots for her boys. Of course, I told her that she had done wrong--I even professed to be angry; but I think she saw through my pretence. What can be done for, or with, such women? How can anyone help them when they are so deceitful? However, I forgave her, and confirmed her in her wickedness by next day sending the shop assistant to her home with several pairs of women's boots that she might select a pair for herself. That kind of deceit has an attraction for me. "How long have you been a widow?" I asked one of the women. "Twelve years, sir." "How long is it since you had a new pair of boots?" "Not since my husband's funeral, sir." Twelve long years since she felt the glow of satisfaction that comes from the feeling of being well shod; twelve years since she listened to the ringing sound of a firm heel in brisk contact with the pavement; twelve years she had gone with that muffled, almost noiseless sound so peculiar to poor women, telling as it does of old slippers or of boots worn to the uppers! What a pity, when so many shoemakers are seeking customers! There is a tremendous moral force in a new pair of boots that possess good firm heels. Everybody that hears them knows instinctively what the sound means, and the neighbours say: "Mrs. Jones is getting on a bit: she is wearing a new pair of boots. Didn't you hear them?" Hear them! Of course they had heard them, and had been jealous of them, too; but that kind of music is not heard every day among London's very poor, and for a time Mrs. Jones was on a higher plane than her neighbours; but by-and-by she comes back to them, for the heels wear away, and she has no others to put on whilst they are repaired, so gradually they slip down to the chronic condition of poor women's boots; then Mrs. Jones's ringing footsteps are heard no more.