s
addressed to him by Sharp, who pointed at his wet apologies for
shoes and stockings, still lying upon the floor.

Henry did as directed, but every step he took was as if he were
treading upon coals of fire. His feet, now enveloped in a closely
fitting pair of woolen stockings, and galled by the hard and
unyielding leather of the new shoes, itched and burned with
maddening fervor.

"Here, carry this hat home," said his master, as he came in from the
street, not seeming to notice the expression of suffering that was
on his face, nor the evident pain with which he walked.

Henry took the hat and started out. He was but a few paces from the
shop, before he found that the shoes rubbed both heels, and pressed
upon them at the same time so hard as to produce a sensation at each
step as if the skin were torn off. Sometimes he would stop and wait
a moment or two, until the intolerable pain subsided, and then he
would walk on again with all the fortitude and power of endurance he
could command. In this extreme suffering, the uppermost thought in
his mind, when on the street, kept his eyes wandering about, and
scanning every female form that came in sight, in the ever-living
hope of seeing his mother. But the sigh of disappointment told too
frequently, that he looked in vain. He had not proceeded far, when
the pains in his feet became so acute that he paused, and leaned
against a tree-box, unable for a time to move forward a single step.
While resting thus, Doctor R--, who had been called to visit a
patient in Lexington, came past and noticed him. There was something
about the child, although so changed that he did not recognize him,
that aroused the doctor's sympathies, and he ordered his man to
drive up to the pavement and stop.

"Well, my little man, what's the matter?" said he, leaning out of
his carriage window.

Henry looked up into his face, but did not reply. He knew Doctor
R--instantly. How strong a hope sprang up in his heart--the hope of
hearing from or being taken back to his mother! The kind-hearted
physician needed no words to tell him that the little boy was
suffering acutely. The flushed face, the starting eye, and the
corrugation of the brow, were language which he understood as
plainly as spoken words.

"What ails you, my little boy!" he said in a voice of tender
concern.

The feelings of Henry softened under the warmth of true sympathy
expressed in the countenance and tone of Doctor R--, and still