She laughed, and stooped to untie the slippers. “That's too much for me.” “Let me untie 'em, Clem,” said the big girl. “It's a shame for you eva to take 'em off.” “That's right, lady,” said the shoeman. “And you don't eva need to,” he added, to Clementina, “unless you object to sleepin' in 'em. You pay me what you want to now, and the rest when I come around the latta paht of August.” “Oh keep 'em, Clem!” the big girl urged, passionately, and the rest joined her with their entreaties. “I guess I betta not,” said Clementina, and she completed the work of taking off the slippers in which the big girl could lend her no further aid, such was her affliction of spirit. “All right, lady,” said the shoeman. “Them's youa slippas, and I'll just keep 'em for you till the latta paht of August.” He drove away, and in the woods which he had to pass through on the road to another hotel he overtook the figure of a man pacing rapidly. He easily recognized Gregory, but he bore him no malice. “Like a lift?” he asked, slowing up beside him. “No, thank you,” said Gregory. “I'm out for the walk.” He looked round furtively, and then put his hand on the side of the wagon, mechanically, as if to detain it, while he walked on. “Did you sell the slippers to the young lady?” “Well, not as you may say sell, exactly,” returned the shoeman, cautiously. “Have you--got them yet?” asked the student. “Guess so,” said the man. “Like to see 'em?” He pulled up his horse. Gregory faltered a moment. Then he said, “I'd like to buy them. Quick!” He looked guiltily about, while the shoeman alertly obeyed, with some delay for a box to put them in. “How much are they?” “Well, that's a custom made slipper, and the price to the lady that oddid'em was seven dollas. But I'll let you have 'em for three--if you want 'em for a present.”--The shoeman was far too discreet to permit himself anything so overt as a smile; he merely let a light of intelligence come into his face. Gregory paid the money. “Please consider this as confidential,” he said, and he made swiftly away. Before the shoeman could lock the drawer that had held the slippers, and clamber to his perch under the buggy-hood, Gregory was running back to him again. “Stop!” he called, and as he came up panting in an excitement which the shoeman might well have mistaken for indignation attending the discovery of some blemish in his purchase. “Do you regard this as in any manner a deception?” he palpitated. “Why,” the shoeman began cautiously, “it wa'n't what you may call a promise, exactly. More of a joke than anything else, I looked on it. I just said I'd keep 'em for her; but--” “You don't understand. If I seemed to disapprove--if I led any one to suppose, by my manner, or by--anything--that I thought it unwise or unbecoming to buy the shoes, and then bought them myself, do you think it is in the nature of an acted falsehood?”