Malcolm looked on with unabated relish--the homely idyll always charmed him.
He had never spoken to the crippled child or her father, although they had often crossed his path at this hour; nevertheless he regarded them as old friends.
More than once he had made up his mind to accost them, but he was reserved by nature and it cost him an effort to take the initiative.

In his case silence was always golden; in his own cynical language, he refused to tout for a cheap popularity by saying pleasant things to strangers.
They were not an attractive pair.

The cobbler was a thin meagre little man, with a round back, bow-legs, a sharp pinched face, and pale blue eyes that seemed to look dejectedly at life.
The child was the image of her father, only in her case the defects were more accentuated: her face was still more pinched, and absolutely colourless, and the large blue-gray eyes were out of proportion to the other features.

A fringe of red hair, curled very stiffly, and set round the small face like a large frill, gave her a curiously weird look.

Some woman's hand must have curled it and tied the wide limp bows of her sunbonnet under the sharp little chin.
Neither of them seemed to notice Malcolm Herrick's scrutiny, they were so absorbed by the pigeons; but the scanty supply of corn had soon been scattered, and the guests were flying off by twos and threes.
"Oh see, dad!" exclaimed the child in her shrill little voice.