"That hunchback caught his scarf in my skate. I thought it never would
come out," he exclaimed. "It's kept me all this time!"

"Hush, Roger," interrupted Frank in a low tone of voice.

The boy was just behind them; he had evidently heard what had been said,
for his pale face turned scarlet, and lingering behind to see which path
the boys intended taking, he walked off in the opposite direction, and
they soon lost sight of him.

Roger was hasty and impulsive, but his nature was kindly, after all; and
when his skates were fairly on, the ice tried, and the first excitement
of the pleasure over, he thought of his unfeeling speech, and the pale,
sad face of the boy rose before him.

"Was it my fault?" The question rang in his ears. Was it the boy's fault
that his legs were crooked, and his back misshapen and awkward? Was it
his fault that he must go through life, receiving pity or contempt from
his more fortunate fellow-creatures, whose limbs were better formed than
his own?

The more Roger thought, the ruder his treatment of the poor lad now
seemed, and putting himself in the boy's place, he felt that such words
would have cut him to the quick.

"I say," said Bob, who had been cutting his initials on a smooth, glassy
spot of ice: "I say, Roger, what makes you so glum? Why, I declare,
there's the little hunchback sitting over there on the bank, looking at
the skaters."

Roger looked in that direction, and saw him sitting alone, his only
enjoyment consisting in seeing without at all engaging in the pleasure
of others.

"What can a poor fellow like that do with himself I wonder?" added Bob.
"I don't suppose he can skate or do anything else without making a show
of himself."

"That's so," said Roger thoughtfully, wondering how he could make up
for his rudeness, or take back his own words. He concluded to let it all
pass for this time. In future he would be more careful, and less hasty
in speaking; for Roger did not have sufficient manliness to go over to
where the boy was sitting, and say frankly; "I beg your pardon for my
rudeness."

The boys proposed a game of tag. Roger was a splendid skater; he engaged
in the game with great zest: his spirits rose, and the crippled boy and
the reproaches of his conscience passed entirely out of his mind as he
skated on, knowing that he could keep his balance as well and strike
out, perhaps, better than any fellow on the pond.

The swiftest and strongest, however, are not a