and when he was two years of age he could not bear his
weight upon his feet, but in creeping dragged his limbs slowly, as
if in them there was no life--no strength.

"Ma, why don't Louis walk?" asked Maude, one evening when she saw
how long it took him to cross the room.

"Loui' tant walk," answered the child, who talked with perfect ease.

The tears came instantly to Mrs. Kennedy's eyes, for, availing
herself of her husband's absence, she had that morning consulted
another physician, who, after carefully examining Louis' body, had
whispered in the poor woman's ear that which made every nerve quiver
with pain, while at the same time it made dearer a thousand-fold her
baby-boy; for a mother's pity increases a mother's love.

"Say, ma, what is it?" persisted Maude. "Will Louis ever walk?"

"Loui'll never walk," answered the little fellow, shaking his brown
curls, and tearing in twain a picture-book which his father had
bought him the day before.

"Maude," said Mrs. Kennedy, drawing her daughter to her side, "I
must tell somebody or my heart will burst," and laying her head upon
the table she wept aloud.

"Don't try, ma, Loui' good," lisped the infant on the floor, while
Mrs. Kennedy, drying at last her tears, told to the wondering Maude
that Louis was not like other children--that he would probably never
have the use of his feet--that a hunch was growing on his back--and
he in time would be--she could not say "deformed," and so she said
at last--"he'll be forever lame."

Poor little Maude! How all her childish dreams were blasted! She had
anticipated so much pleasure in guiding her brother's tottering
footsteps, in leading him to school, to church, and everywhere, and
she could not have him lame.

"Oh, Louis, Louis!" she cried, winding her arms around his neck, as
if she would thus avert the dreaded evil.

Very wonderfully the child looked up into her eyes, and raising his
waxen hand he wiped her tears away, saying as he did so, "Loui' love
Maude."

With a choking sob Maude kissed her baby brother, then going back to
her mother, whose head still lay upon the table, she whispered, "We
will love poor Louis all the more, you and I."

Blessed Maude, we say again, for these were no idle words, and the
clinging, tender love with which she cherished her unfortunate
brother ought to have shamed the heartless man who, when he heard of
his affliction, refused to be comforted, and almost cursed the day
when his only