"I showed them to him, and he said it was only a snow-burn, and that
I must put my feet in snow and let it draw the cold out."

"Did you do so?"

"Yes, sir, as long as I could bear it; but it hurt dreadful bad. Mr.
Maxwell said I didn't keep them in half long enough."

"Were they better afterward?"

"Yes, sir, I think they were; but I go out so much in the snow, and
get them wet so often, that they can't get well."

"What is your name?" I asked.

"William."

"What else?"

"William Miller."

"Is your mother alive?"

The tone and manner of the boy, when he gave a half inarticulate
negative, made me regret having asked the question. It was a
needless one, for already knew that his mother was dead. It was
meant, however, as a preliminary inquiry, and, having been made, I
proceeded to question him, in order to learn something, briefly, of
his history.

"Were you born in Baltimore?" I continued.

"Yes, sir."

"Have you any relatives here?"

"Mr. P---- W---- is my uncle."

"Mr. W----?" I said, in surprise.

"Yes, sir--mother said he was my uncle."

"Is he your mother's brother?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did he ever come to see your mother?"

"No, sir, he never came near us, and mother never went to see him."

"What was the reason?"

"I don't know, sir."

The child continued to look intently in my face, but I questioned
him no further. I knew Mr. W---- very well, and settled it at once in
my mind that I would call and see him about the lad. I stood musing
for some moments after the boy's last reply, and then said--

"Tell Mr. Maxwell, that I will call down in about half an hour: Run
home as quickly as you can, and try and keep out of the rain."

The sad, rebuking earnestness with which the boy looked at me, when
I said this, touched my feelings. He had, evidently, expected more
than a mere expression of sympathy; but I did not think it right to
create any false hopes in his mind. I meant to do all I could to
relieve his wretched condition; but did not know how far I would be
successful.

I found, on visiting the child of Maxwell, that I had quite a severe
case of croup on my hands. His respiration was very difficult, and
sounded as if the air were forced through a metallic tube. There was
a good deal of fever, and other unfavourable symptoms. The
albuminous secretion was large, and the formation of the false
membrane so rapid as to threaten suffocation. I resorted to the
usual treatment in such cas