at, in a month or two, he would not need a
teacher. The quiet, studious, pale little boy had become a great
favorite with Granny Flynn.

"Sure an' Oi must be after getting over to see the poor lad's mother
some noight," she said. "'Tis a noice woman she must be wid such a
pretty-behaved little lad."

"Oh, she is, Granny," Maida said earnestly. "I've been there once or
twice when Mrs. Dore came home early. And she's just the nicest lady
and so fond of Dicky and the baby."

But Granny was old and very easily tired and, so, though her
intentions were of the best, she did not make this call.

One afternoon, after Thanksgiving, Maida ran over to Dicky's to
borrow some pink tissue paper. She knocked gently. Nobody answered.
But from the room came the sound of sobbing. Maida listened. It was
Dicky's voice. At first she did not know what to do. Finally, she
opened the door and peeped in. Dicky was sitting all crumpled up,
his head resting on the table.

"Oh, what is the matter, Dicky?" Maida asked.

Dicky jumped. He raised his head and looked at her. His face was
swollen with crying, his eyes red and heavy. For a moment he could
not speak. Maida could see that he was ashamed of being caught in
tears, that he was trying hard to control himself.

"It's something I heard," he replied at last.

"What?" Maida asked.

"Last night after I got to bed, Doc O'Brien came here to get his
bill paid. Mother thought I was asleep and asked him a whole lot of
questions. He told her that I wasn't any better and I never would be
any better. He said that I'd be a cripple for the rest of my life."

In spite of all his efforts, Dicky's voice broke into a sob.

"Oh Dicky, Dicky," Maida said. Better than anybody else in the
world, Maida felt that she could understand, could sympathize. "Oh,
Dicky, how sorry I am!"

"I can't bear it," Dicky said.

He put his head down on the table and began to sob. "I can't bear
it," he said. "Why, I thought when I grew up to be a man, I was
going to take care of mother and Delia. Instead of that, they'll be
taking care of me. What can a cripple do? Once I read about a
crippled newsboy. Do you suppose I could sell papers?" he asked with
a gleam of hope.

"I'm sure you could," Maida said heartily, "and a great many other
things. But it may not be as bad as you think, Dicky. Dr. O'Brien
may be mistaken. You know something was wrong with me when I was
born and I did not begin to walk until a year ago. M