ly. You
see, dear, a great many people live in that big apartment house, and
they may not all be desirable friends for you. But look, isn't that the
very child you are talking about? Yes, to be sure it is, and she seems
to be in trouble. She must have had a fall."

A moment later little Betty Randall, standing in the middle of the
sidewalk, gazing disconsolately down on the debris of her three cream
cakes, which lay crushed and shapeless at her feet, was startled to hear
a sweet, sympathetic voice saying close to her side:

"I'm sorry; how did it happen?"

"I slipped on a piece of orange peel," explained little Betty, at
once recognizing the lady and little girl she had seen at the baker's,
"and fell right on my bag of cream cakes. They're all spoiled."

[Illustration: Little Betty Randall gazing disconsolately down on the
debris of her three cream cakes.--_Page 10._]

"It's too bad, but hadn't you better go back for some more?" the lady
suggested pleasantly.

Betty hesitated, and her color rose.

"I think not to-day," she said a little primly; "mother might not like
it. I don't mind about myself," she added quickly, "but I'm sorry for
Jack; he's very fond of cream cakes."

"Is Jack your little brother?" Winifred asked.

"Yes; how did you know I had a little brother?"

"The woman at the baker's said so, and she said he was a cripple."

Betty's face softened wonderfully. By this time they had abandoned the
cream cakes to their fate, and were all three walking on together
towards the big apartment house on the next corner.

"Yes, he is a cripple," she said; "he can't walk at all. He had a fall
when he was a baby, and it hurt his spine."

"How very sad," said Winifred sympathetically; "how did it happen?"

"His nurse dropped him one day when mother and father were out. She
didn't tell at first, and nobody knew what was the matter with Jack,
and what made him cry whenever any one touched him. At last the doctor
found out that his spine was injured, and then she confessed."

"How old is he now?" Winifred inquired.

"He will be nine the day after to-morrow, but he seems older than that.
He's a very clever little boy; he reads a great deal, and he can draw
beautiful pictures. Mother thinks it's because he is so much by himself
that he gets to be so old-fashioned. I'm eleven, but I'm not nearly so
clever as Jack."

"I suppose you are very fond of him," said Winifred. "A person would
naturally be very fond o