Dave threw everything he could lay hands
on at Stevie--books, cushions, and last a pretty paper-weight. The
books and cushions Stevie dodged, but the paper-weight hit him on the
shin, a sharp enough blow to bring tears to his eyes and the angry
blood to his cheeks. Catching up a cushion that lay near, he sent it
whizzing at Dave, and had the satisfaction of seeing it hit his cousin
full in the face; then, before Dave could retaliate, he slipped into
the hall and slammed the door of the guest room.

Out in the hall he almost danced with rage. "I'll tell Hitty," he
stormed; "I won't wait on him and do things for him any longer. He's
the worst-tempered boy in the whole world. I just won't have another
thing to do with him! I'll go and tell her so."

Before he got half way to Mehitabel, however, he changed his mind, and
stealing softly back, sat on the top step of the stairs, just outside
Dave's room, to wait till Dave should call him, to make up, as had
happened more than once before. Stevie determined he wouldn't go in
of his own accord--he said Dave had been "too contemptibly mean." So
he sat there with a very obstinate look on his little face, his elbows
on his knees and his chin in his palms, staring at the patch of blue
sky which was visible through the hall window nearest him.

But somehow, after a while Stevie's anger began to cool, and he began
to feel sorry for Dave, and to wonder if the cushion had hurt him--a
corner of it might have struck his eye! The paper-weight had hurt
quite a good deal; but then he could get out of the way of such things,
while Dave couldn't dodge, he had to lie there and take what Stevie
threw. Poor Dave! and he might lie in that helpless way for years
yet--the doctors had said perhaps by the time he was twenty-one he
might be able to walk. What a long time to have to wait! Poor Dave!
Stevie wondered if he would behave better than Dave if he were twelve
years old and as helpless as his cousin. Mehitabel said they were both
fond of their own way and loved to order people about; he guessed all
boys loved their own way, whether they were nine or twelve years old.

And then suddenly there came to Stevie the remembrance of a picture
that hung in his mamma's room. It was a print of a famous painting,
and it represented a Boy of twelve, with a bright, eager, beautiful
face, standing among grave, dark-browed, white-robed men. Mamma and
Stevie had often talked about the Boy ther