ny more thought than it now cost him to put all the bones of
his hands in order, so as to carry his tea and bread-and-butter to his
mouth.

"But that is not all--nor half what I mean," said Hugh. "No, my dear;
nor half what you will have to make up your mind to bear. You will have
a great deal to bear, Hugh. You resolved to bear it all patiently, I
remember: but what is it that you dread the most?"

"Oh! All manner of things. I can never do things like other people."

"Some things. You can never play cricket, as every Crofton boy would
like to do. You can never dance at your sisters' Christmas parties."

"Oh! Mamma!" cried Agnes, with tears in her eyes, and the thought in
her mind that it was cruel to talk so.

"Go on! Go on!" cried Hugh, brightening. "You know what I feel,
mother; and you don't keep telling me, as Aunt Shaw does (and even Agnes
sometimes), that it wont signify much, and that I shall not care, and
all that; making out that it is no misfortune hardly, when I know what
it is, and they don't."

"That is a common way of trying to give comfort, and it is kindly
meant," said Mrs Proctor. "But those who have suffered much themselves
know a better way. The best way is not to deny any of the trouble or
the sorrow, and not to press on the sufferer any comforts which he
cannot now see and enjoy. If comforts arise, he will enjoy them as they
come."

"Now then, go on," said Hugh. "What else?"

"There will be little checks and mortifications continually--when you
see boys leaping over this, and climbing that, and playing at the other,
while you must stand out, and can only look on. And some people will
pity you in a way you don't like; and some may even laugh at you."

"O mamma!" exclaimed Agnes.

"I have seen and heard children in the street do it," replied Mrs
Proctor. "This is a thing almost below notice; but I mentioned it while
we were reckoning up our troubles."

"Well, what else?" said Hugh.

"Sooner or later, you will have to follow some way of life, determined
by this accident, instead of one that you would have liked better. But
we need not think of this yet:--not till you have become quite
accustomed to your lameness."

"Well, what else?"

"I must ask you now. I can think of nothing more; and I hope there is
not much else; for indeed I think here is quite enough for a boy--or any
one else--to bear."

"I will bear it, though,--you will see."

"You will find great helps