them sit in her parlour. She was kind to Sorrell; she offered to do his mending for him.
Christopher loved trees. There was a particular elm in the Close, a green giant with a ring seat round its bole, under which the boy liked to sit. Nor was Sorrell sorry to sit. It conserved boot leather, and rested his tired feet. Kit had noticed on their short country rambles that his father walked as though his feet hurt him. He had noticed—too—that one of the boots was patched.
"Your turn next—pater?"
"What for, son?"
"Boots," said the boy.
He had fatherly moments towards Sorrell. He too had his plans, vague ambitions, and impulse that pushed him towards some magnificent job in the doing of which he would earn much money. He had sensed the effort in his father's life; he dreamed of taking his share of the effort.
"I can start work at fifteen, pater."
Sorrell was astonished.
"I hope not," he said, and glancing from the boy's face to the spreading branches of the elm he saw life and its effort symbolized.
"Most people grow like cabbages. Look at this tree. How many years—eh? O,—it was not in a hurry. We—are not going to be in a hurry."
The boy's eyes were questioning.
"Not as long as that With you—sweating—and doing everything"
"It's my job, Kit."
He looked mysterious.
"I've got plans. The thing isWell, you don't know yet,—what you will want to do—I mean. No blind alleys, or office stools."
"You mean—dad—what I would like to be?"
"That's it."
"Seems—one's got to earn money."
"Wait a bit. There's something better: how you earn it. The real job matters more than the money."
"Yes," said Christopher very solemnly, "the sort of thing you love doing. Well,—I suppose I shall find out."
