It was over a year before I was again in London. And the first shop I went to was my old friend's.

I had left a man of sixty, I came back to one of seventy-five, pinched and worn and tremulous, who genuinely, this time, did not at first know me.

"Oh! Mr. Gessler," I said, sick at heart; "how splendid your boots are!

See, I've been wearing this pair nearly all the time I've been abroad; and they're not half worn out, are they?" He looked long at my boots-a pair of Russia leather, and his face seemed to regain steadiness.

Putting his hand on my instep, he said: "Do they fit you here? I had trouble with that pair, I remember." I assured him that they had fitted beautifully.

"Do you want any boots?" he said. "I can make them quickly; it is a slack time." I answered: "Please, please! I want boots all round -- every kind!" "I will make a fresh model. Your foot must be bigger." And with utter slowness, he traced round my foot, and felt my toes, only once looking up to say: "Did I tell you my brother was dead?" To watch him was painful, so feeble had he grown; I was glad to get away.

I had given those boots up, when one evening they came.

Opening the parcel, I set the four pairs out in a row. Then one by one I tried them on.

There was no doubt about it. In shape and fit, in finish and quality of leather, they were the best he had ever made me.

And in the mouth of one of the Town walking-boots I found his bill.