he saddest sight for our crippled
athlete was a glimpse, through a half-opened door, at the beloved
dumb-bells, bats, balls, boxing-gloves, and snow-shoes, all piled
ignominiously away in the bath-pan, mournfully recalling the fact that
their day was over, now, at least for some time.

He was about to groan dismally, when his eye fell on a sight which made
him swallow the groan, and cough instead, as if it choked him a little.
The sight was his mother's face, as she sat in a low chair rolling
bandages, with a basket beside her in which were piles of old linen,
lint, plaster, and other matters, needed for the dressing of wounds. As
he looked, Jack remembered how steadily and tenderly she had stood by
him all through the hard times just past, and how carefully she had
bathed and dressed his wound each day in spite of the effort it cost her
to give him pain or even see him suffer.

"That's a better sort of strength than swinging twenty-pound dumb-bells
or running races; I guess I'll try for that kind, too, and not howl or
let her see me squirm when the doctor hurts," thought the boy, as he saw
that gentle face so pale and tired with much watching and anxiety, yet
so patient, serene, and cheerful, that it was like sunshine.

"Lie down and take a good nap, mother dear, I feel first-rate, and Frank
can see to me if I want anything. Do, now," he added, with a persuasive
nod toward the couch, and a boyish relish in stirring up his lazy
brother.

After some urging, Mamma consented to go to her room for forty winks,
leaving Jack in the care of Frank, begging him to be as quiet as
possible if the dear boy wished to sleep, and to amuse him if he did
not.

Being worn out, Mrs. Minot lengthened her forty winks into a three
hours' nap, and as the "dear boy" scorned repose, Mr. Frank had his
hands full while on guard.

"I'll read to you. Here's Watt, Arkwright, Fulton, and a lot of capital
fellows, with pictures that will do your heart good. Have a bit, will
you?" asked the new nurse, flapping the leaves invitingly.--for Frank
had a passion for such things, and drew steam-engines all over his
slate, as Tommy Traddles drew hosts of skeletons when low in his
spirits.

"I don't want any of your old boilers and stokers and whirligigs. I'm
tired of reading, and want something regularly jolly," answered Jack,
who had been chasing white buffaloes with "The Hunters of the West,"
till he was a trifle tired and fractious.

"Play cribb