More than contented, therefore, while busily his father wedded welt and sole with stitches infrangible, Gibbie sat on the floor, preparing waxed ends, carefully sticking in the hog's bristle, and rolling the combination, with quite professional aptitude, between the flat of his hand and what of trouser-leg he had left, gazing eagerly between at the advancing masterpiece.

Occasionally the triumph of expectation would exceed his control, when he would spring from the floor, and caper and strut about like a pigeon--soft as a shadow, for he knew his father could not bear noise in the morning--or behind his back execute a pantomimic dumb show of delight, in which he seemed with difficulty to restrain himself from jumping upon him, and hugging him in his ecstasy.

Oh, best of parents! working thus even on a Sunday for his Gibbie, when everybody else was at church enjoying himself! But Gibbie never dared hug his father except when he was drunk--why, he could hardly have told.

Relieved by his dumb show, he would return, quite as an aged grimalkin, and again deposit himself on the floor near his father where he could see his busy hands.
All this time Sir George never spoke a word.

Incredible as it may seem, however, he was continually, off and on, trying his hardest to think of some Sunday lesson to give his child.