reaching up to take something from the mantel piece. He fell on the
andiron-head and injured his spine so that he could never walk. He is
twenty years old now; his head and chest and arms are about as large as
those of a boy of sixteen, but all the rest of his poor body is shrunken
and withered; he has never stood upright, and he cannot turn himself in
his chair or bed. But his head and face are beautiful. It is not only I
who think so. Artists have seen him sitting at the window, or being drawn
about in his little wagon, and have begged permission to paint his face,
for the face of a saint or of a hero, in their pictures. It is the face of
both saint and hero; and after all that must be always so, I think; for
how could a man be one without being the other? I know some very brave men
have been very bad men, but I do not call them heroes. Nat is the only
hero I ever knew; if I were a poet I would write a poem about him. It
should be called 'THE CROWNLESS KING.' Oh, how he _does_ reign over
suffering, and loss, and humiliation, and what a sweet kingdom spreads out
around him wherever he is! He does everybody good, and everybody loves
him. Poor papa used to say sometimes, 'My son is a far better preacher
than I; see, I sit at his feet to learn;' and it was true. Even when he
was a little fellow Nat used to keep up papa's courage. Many a time, when
papa looked dark and sad, Nat would call to him, 'Dear papa, will you
carry me up and down a little while by the window? I want the sky.' Then,
while they were walking, Nat would say such sweet things about the beauty
of the sky, and the delight it gave him to see it, that the tears would
come into papa's eyes, and he would say, 'Who would think that we could
ever forget for a moment this sky which is above us?' and he would go away
to his study comforted.

"As I said, when mamma died, Nat was ten and I was thirteen. From that
time I took all the care of him. Aunt Abby, was not strong, and she did
not love children. She was just, and she meant to be always kind to us;
but that sort of kindness is quite different from loving-kindness. Poor
Nat never could bear to have her do anything for him, and so it very soon
came about that I took all the care of him. It was not hard, for he was
never ill; he suffered constant pain but in spite of it he was always
cheerful, always said he felt well, and never had any of the small
ailments and diseases which healthy children are apt to have. 'I