and it seemed that he was
born to a great destiny. He--little lame Dickie Harding of Deptford--he
would hold these people's lives in his hand. Well, he knew what poor
people wanted; he had been poor--or he had dreamed that he was poor--it
was all the same. Dreams and real life were so very much alike.

So Dickie changed, every hour of every day and every moment of every
hour, from the little boy who lived at New Cross among the yellow houses
and the ugliness, who tramped the white roads, and slept at the Inn of
the Silver Moon, to Richard of the other name who lived well and slept
softly, and knew himself called to a destiny of power and helpful
kindness. For his nurse had told him that his father was a rich man; and
that father's riches would be his one day, to deal with for the good of
the men under him, for their happiness and the glory of God. It was a
great and beautiful thought, and Dickie loved it.

He loved, indeed, everything in this new life--the shapes and colors of
furniture and hangings, the kind old nurse, the friendly, laughing
maids, the old doctor with his long speeches and short smiles, his bed,
his room, the ships, the river, the trees, the gardens--the very sky
seemed cleaner and brighter than the sky that had been over the Deptford
that Dickie Harding had known.

And then came the day when the nurse, having dressed him, bade him walk
to the window, instead of being carried, as, so far, he had been.

"Where ..." he asked, hesitatingly, "where's my...? Where have you put
the crutch?"

Then the old nurse laughed.

"Crutch?" she said. "Come out of thy dreams. Thou silly boy! Thou wants
no crutch with two fine, straight, strong legs like thou's got. Come,
use them and walk."

Dickie looked down at his feet. In the old New Cross days he had not
liked to look at his feet. He had not looked at them in these new days.
Now he looked. Hesitated.

"Come," said the nurse encouragingly.

He slid from the high bed. One might as well try. Nurse seemed to
think.... He touched the ground with both feet, felt the floor firm and
even under them--as firm and even under the one foot as under the other.
He stood up straight, moved the foot that he had been used to move--then
the other, the one that he had never moved. He took two steps, three,
four--and then he turned suddenly and flung himself against the side of
the bed and hid his face in his arms.

"What, weeping, my lamb?" the nurse said, and came to him