And presently he told them that he was so busy listening to what they said, that he forgot everything else, when he felt as if something had got between two of his toes; unconsciously he put his hand down; and his foot was not there! Nothing could be plainer than the feeling in his toes: and, then, when he put out his hand, and found nothing, it was so terrible--it startled him so.

It was a comfort to him to find that his mother knew all about this.

She came and kneeled beside his sofa, and told him that many persons who had lost a limb considered this odd feeling the most painful thing they had to bear for some time; but that, though the feeling would return occasionally through life, it would cease to be painful. When he had become so used to do without his foot as to leave off wanting or wishing for it, he would perhaps make a joke of the feeling, instead of being disappointed. At least she knew that some persons did so who had lost a limb.

This did not comfort Hugh much, for every prospect had suddenly become darkened. He said he did not know how he should bear his misfortune;-- he was pretty sure he could not bear it. It seemed so long already since it had happened! And when he thought of the long long days, and months, and years, to the end of his life, and that he should never run and play, and never be like other people, and never able to do the commonest things without labour and trouble, he wished he was dead. He had rather have died.

Agnes thought he must be miserable indeed, if he could venture to say this to his mother. She glanced at her mother's face; but there was no displeasure there. Mrs Proctor said this feeling was very natural.

She had felt it herself, under smaller misfortunes than Hugh's; but she had found that, though the prospect appears all strewn with troubles, they come singly, and are not worth minding, after all. She told Hugh that, when she was a little girl, very lazy--fond of her bed--fond of her book--and not at all fond of washing and dressing--

"Why, mother, you!" exclaimed Hugh.

"Yes; that was the sort of little girl I was. Well, I was in despair, one day, at the thought that I should have to wash, and clean my teeth, and brush my hair, and put on every daily article of dress every morning, as long as I lived. There was nothing I disliked so much; and yet it was the thing that must be done every day of my whole life."

"Did you tell anybody?" asked Hugh.

"No; I was ashamed to do that: but I remember I cried. You see how it turns out. Grown people, who have got to do everything by habit, so easily as not to think about it, wash and dress every morning, without ever being weary of it. We do not consider so much as once a year what we are doing at dressing-time, though at seven years old it is a very laborious and tiresome affair to get ready for breakfast."

"It is the same about writing letters," observed Agnes. "The first letter I ever wrote was to Aunt Shaw; and it took so long, and was so tiresome, that, when I thought of all the exercises I should have to write for Miss Harold, and all the letters that I must send to my relations when I grew up, I would have given everything I had in the world not to have learned to write. Oh! How I pitied papa, when I saw sometimes the pile of letters that were lying to go to the post!"

"And how do you like corresponding with Phil now?"

Agnes owned, with blushes, that she still dreaded the task for some days before, and felt particularly gay when it was done. Her mother believed that, if infants could think and look forward, they would be far more terrified with the prospect of having to walk on their two legs all their lives, than lame people could be at having to learn the art in part over again. Grown people are apt to doubt whether they can learn a new language, though children make no difficulty about it: the reason of which is, that grown people see at one view the whole labour, while children do not look beyond their daily task. Experience, however, always brings relief. Experience shows that every effort comes at its proper time, and that there is variety or rest in the intervals. People who have to wash and dress every morning have other things to do in the after part of the day; and, as the old fable tells us, the clock that has to tick, before it is worn out, so many millions of times, as it perplexes the mind to think of, has exactly the same number of seconds to do it in; so that it never has more work on its hands than it can get through. So Hugh would find that he could move about on each separate occasion, as he wanted; and practice would, in time, enable him to do it without any more thought than it now cost him to put all the bones of his hands in order, so as to carry his tea and bread-and-b.u.t.ter to his mouth.

"But that is not all--nor half what I mean," said Hugh. "No, my dear; nor half what you will have to make up your mind to bear. You will have a great deal to bear, Hugh. You resolved to bear it all patiently, I remember: but what is it that you dread the most?"

"Oh! All manner of things. I can never do things like other people."

"Some things. You can never play cricket, as every Crofton boy would like to do. You can never dance at your sisters' Christmas parties."

"Oh! Mamma!" cried Agnes, with tears in her eyes, and the thought in her mind that it was cruel to talk so.

"Go on! Go on!" cried Hugh, brightening. "You know what I feel, mother; and you don't keep telling me, as Aunt Shaw does (and even Agnes sometimes), that it wont signify much, and that I shall not care, and all that; making out that it is no misfortune hardly, when I know what it is, and they don't."

"That is a common way of trying to give comfort, and it is kindly meant," said Mrs Proctor. "But those who have suffered much themselves know a better way. The best way is not to deny any of the trouble or the sorrow, and not to press on the sufferer any comforts which he cannot now see and enjoy. If comforts arise, he will enjoy them as they come."

"Now then, go on," said Hugh. "What else?"

"There will be little checks and mortifications continually--when you see boys leaping over this, and climbing that, and playing at the other, while you must stand out, and can only look on. And some people will pity you in a way you don't like; and some may even laugh at you."

"O mamma!" exclaimed Agnes.

"I have seen and heard children in the street do it," replied Mrs Proctor. "This is a thing almost below notice; but I mentioned it while we were reckoning up our troubles."

"Well, what else?" said Hugh.

"Sooner or later, you will have to follow some way of life, determined by this accident, instead of one that you would have liked better. But we need not think of this yet:--not till you have become quite accustomed to your lameness."

"Well, what else?"

"I must ask you now. I can think of nothing more; and I hope there is not much else; for indeed I think here is quite enough for a boy--or any one else--to bear."

"I will bear it, though,--you will see."

"You will find great helps. These misfortunes, of themselves, strengthen one's mind. They have some advantages too. You will be a better scholar for your lameness, I have no doubt. You will read more books, and have a mind richer in thoughts. You will be more beloved;-- not out of mere pity; for people in general will soon leave off pitying you, when once you learn to be active again; but because you have kept faith with your schoolfellows, and shown that you can bear pain. Yes, you will be more loved by us all; and you yourself will love G.o.d more for having given you something to bear for his sake."

"I hope so,--I think so," said Hugh. "O mother! I may be very happy yet."

"Very happy; and, when you have once made up your mind to everything, the less you think and speak about it, the happier you will be. It is very right for us now, when it is all new, and strange, and painful, to talk it well over; to face it completely; but when your mind is made up, and you are a Crofton boy again, you will not wish to speak much of your own concerns, unless it be to me, or to Agnes, sometimes, when your heart is full."

"Or to Dale, when you are far off."

"Yes,--to Dale, or some one friend at Crofton. But there is only one Friend that one is quite sure to get strength from,--the same who has given strength to all the brave people that ever lived, and comfort to all sufferers. When the greatest of all sufferers wanted relief, what did He do?"

"He went by Himself, and prayed," said Agnes.

"Yes, that is the way," observed Hugh, as if he knew by experience.

Mr Shaw presently came, to say that tea was ready.

"I am too big a baby to be carried now," cried Hugh, gaily. "Let me try if I cannot go alone."

"Why,--there is the step at the parlour-door," said Mr Shaw, doubtfully. "At any rate, stop till I bring a light."

But Hugh followed close upon his uncle's heels, and was over the step before his aunt supposed he was half way across the hall. After tea, his uncle and he were so full of play, that the ladies could hardly hear one another speak till Hugh was gone to bed, too tired to laugh any more.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

DOMESTIC MANNERS.

After Mr Proctor had come and was gone, and Mrs Proctor was gone with him, Hugh began to wonder why Tooke had never paid the visit he had promised. Several boys had called; some to thank Hugh for b.a.l.l.s that he had quilted; some to see how he got on; and some to bring him Crofton news. Mr Tooke had fastened his horse up at the door, in pa.s.sing, and stepped in for a few minutes, two or three times a week: but it was now within six days of the holidays, and the one Hugh most wished to see had not appeared. His uncle observed his wistful look when the door-bell rang, and drew his conclusions. He said, on the Wednesday before the breaking-up, that he was going to drive past the Crofton school; that it was such a fine day that he thought Hugh might go with him, and perhaps they might persuade some one to come home to dinner with them.

Hugh had never enjoyed the open air more than during this drive. He had yet much to learn about the country, and it was all as beautiful as it was new. His uncle pointed out to him the fieldfares wheeling in flocks over the fallows; and the rabbits in the warren, scampering away with their little white tails turned up; and the robin hopping in the frosty pathway; and the wild ducks splashing among the reeds in the marshes.

They saw the cottagers' children trying to collect snow enough from the small remains of the drifts to make snow-b.a.l.l.s, and obliged to throw away the dirty snow that would melt, and would not bind. As they left the road, and turned through a copse, because Mr Shaw had business with Mr Sullivan's gamekeeper, a pheasant flew out, whirring, from some ferns and brambles, and showed its long tail-feathers before it disappeared over the hedge. All these sights were new to Hugh: and all, after pain and confinement, looked beautiful and gay.

Mr Shaw could not stop for Hugh to get out at Crofton; so, when his arrival was seen, the boys were allowed to go out of bounds, as far as the gig, to speak to their school-fellow. Mr Shaw asked Tooke to mount, and go home with them for the day; and Tooke was so pleased,--so agreeably surprised to see Hugh look quite well and merry, that he willingly ran off to ask leave, and to wash his face, and change his jacket. When he had jumped in, and Hugh had bidden the rest good-bye, a sudden shyness came over his poor conscious visitor: and it was not lessened by Mr Shaw telling Tooke that he did not do credit to Crofton air,--so puny as he seemed: and that he looked at that moment more like one that had had a bad accident than Hugh did. When Mr Shaw perceived how the boy's eyes filled with tears in an instant, he probably thought within himself that Tooke was sadly weak-spirited, and altogether more delicate than he had been aware of.

Hugh was full of questions about Crofton matters, however; and long before they reached Mr Shaw's, they were chattering as busily as possible. But then it was all spoiled to Tooke again by seeing Hugh lifted out, and his crutches brought to him, and Agnes ready to take his hat and cloak, instead of his being able to run about, doing everything for himself.

The sofa had been left in Hugh's room, and there was a fire there every afternoon, for him and Agnes, that their aunt might have the parlour to herself till tea-time. The three young people went therefore to this room after dinner. Agnes felt a little uncomfortable, as she always did when any Crofton boys came. They had so much to say to each other of things that she did not understand, and so very little to say to her, that she continually felt as if she was in the way. When she proposed, as usual, that Hugh should go through his exercises in walking and running (for she was indefatigable in helping him to learn to walk well, and superintended his practice every afternoon), he refused hastily and rather rudely. Of course, she could not know that he had a reason for wishing not to show off his lameness before Tooke; and she thought him unkind. He might indeed have remembered to ask her before to say nothing this afternoon about his exercises. She took out her work, and sat down at some distance from the boys; but they did not get on. It was very awkward. At last, the boys' eyes met, and they saw that they should like to talk freely, if they could.

"Agnes," said Hugh, "cannot you go somewhere, and leave us alone?"

"I hardly know where I can go," replied Agnes. "I must not disturb aunt; and there is no fire anywhere else."

"O, I am sure aunt won't mind, for this one afternoon. You can be still as a mouse; and she can doze away, as if n.o.body was there."

"I can be as still as a mouse here," observed Agnes. "I can take my work to that farthest window; and if you whisper, I shall not hear a word you say. Or, if I do hear a word, I will tell you directly. And you will let me come, now and then, and warm myself, if I find I cannot hold my needle any longer."