"Shoes, eh?" said the old machinist, lifting one foot end then the other on his knee, and looking vacantly at the holes through which the bare skin showed. "Oh, yes, yes,"--rising and going past her, as if he did not see her. "But you'll take them?" "Hush, Mary! Mr. Starke, I may come and see you to-morrow, you said? We'll arrange matters,"--with a hearty tone. Starke touched his hat with the air of an old-school gentleman. "I shall be happy to see you, Sir,--very happy. You will allow me to wish you good evening?"--smiling. "I am not well,"--with the same meaningless look. "Certainly,"--shaking hands earnestly. "I wish I could induce you to stay and have a talk over your future prospects, eh? But to-morrow--I will be down early to-morrow. Your young friend gave me the address. The model--we'll have that sent down to-morrow, too." Starke stopped. "The model," without, however, looking at it. "Yes. It can go to-night. I should prefer that. Andrew will bring an express-wagon for it,"--fumbling in his pocket. "I have the exact change," said Miss Defourchet, eagerly; "let me pay the express." Starke's face colored and grew pale again. "You mistake me," he said, smiling. "He's no beggar. You hurt him," Andy had whispered, pushing back her hand. Some women had no sense, if they were ladies. Ann Mipps would never have done that! Starke drew out a tattered leather purse: there was a dime in it, which Andy took. He lighted his lantern, and followed Starke out of the house, noticing how the Doctor hesitated before he closed the door after them. They stood a moment on the pavement; the rain was dark and drenching, with sudden gusts of wind coming down the street. The machinist stood, his old cap stuck on the back of his head, his arms fallen nerveless at his sides, hair and coat and trousers flapping and wet: the very picture of a man whom the world had tried, and in whom it had found no possible savor of use but to be trodden under foot of men. "God help him!" thought Andy, "he's far gone! He don't even button an' unbutton his coat as allus." But he asked no questions, excepting where should he take _it_. Some young men came up, three abreast; Starke drew humbly out of their way before he replied. "I--I do not know, Andrew. But I'd rather not see it again. You"-- His voice went down into a low mumbling, and he turned and went slowly off up the street. Andy stood puzzled a moment, then hurried after him. "Let me go home with you." "What use, boy?" "To-morrow, then?" Starke said nothing, thrust his hands into his pockets, his head falling on his breast with an unchanged vacancy of expression. Andy looked after him, coughing, gazing about him uncertainly. "He's clean given up! What kin _I_ do?" Then overtook him again, forcing the lantern into his hand,--not without a gulp for breath. "Here! take this! I like to. It's yours now, Mr. Starke, d' y' understand? Yours. But you'll take care of it, won't you?"