Paul made no reply. His restless glance roved sullenly over the heap of mended shoes and boots on the floor, and, selecting the pair he was looking for, he ran a quivering finger along the freshly polished edge of the soles and bent the leather testingly. “Some o' the white oak you helped tan out thar at Hoag's,” Silas jested. “If it ain't the best the brand on it is a liar, and I have been buncoed by your rich boss.” This also evoked no response. Thrusting the shoes under his arm, the boy put his hand into his pocket and drew out some small coins and counted them on the low window-sill close to the shoemaker. He was turning away when Silas stopped him. Pointing to a chair bottomed with splints of white oak and strengthened by strips of leather interlaced and tacked to the posts he said: “Take that seat; I hain't seed you in a coon's age, Paul, and I want to talk to you.” With a slightly softened expression, the boy glanced through the open doorway out into the beating sunshine toward his horses and wagon. “I've got to move on.” He drew his tattered sleeve across his damp brow and looked at the floor. “I got another load to bring down from the mountain.” Silas peered through the window at the horses and nodded slowly. “Them pore pantin' brutes need the rest they are gettin' right now. Set down! set down! You don't have to hurry.” Reluctantly the youth complied, holding the shoes in his lap. Silas hammered diligently for a moment, and then the furrows on his kindly brow deepened as he stared steadily through his glasses, which were seldom free from splotches of lampblack and beeswax. “I wonder, Paul, if you'd git mad if I was to tell you that I've always had a whoppin' big interest in you?” The boy made as if about to speak, but seemed to have no command of tact or diplomacy. He flushed faintly; his lashes flickered; he fumbled the shoes in his lap, but no words were forthcoming. However, to Silas this was answer enough, and he was encouraged to go on.