But the face of her son Jemmy was neither cheerful nor bright, as he sat, with his crutches beside him, in front of the fire, with his back turned towards his mother. First Jemmy yawned, then yawned again, and then he took to sighing; and his sigh had so dreary a sound, that it drew the attention of Mary.
"What are you thinking of, Jemmy, my lad?" asked the mother, stopping the wheel for a minute.
"I am thinking of all my troubles," was the mournful reply, uttered slowly, and in a tone most plaintive.
"Well, the accident to your leg was a great trouble; but the poor leg is getting better,—the doctor says that you will soon throw your crutches away," observed Mary cheerfully; and round again went her wheel.
"I was not thinking of great troubles, but of little troubles," said Jemmy; "this has been an unlucky day. It rains when I want to go out."
"Oh! The blessed rain, which will do the country such good!" interrupted his mother.
"And I've lost my silver penny," continued Jemmy. "I cannot find it, though I've hunted in every nook and cranny."
"Certainly that is no great trouble," laughed Mary. "Wait till I've spun this yarn, and I'll help you to look for your silver penny. And what is your next trouble, my boy?"
"That pretty plant which the gardener gave me is dying; it is curling up all its leaves," sighed doleful Jemmy, glancing towards a flowerpot which stood on the sill.
"I daresay that it only wants a little water," said Mary. "See how the spring shower is making the fields and hedges green! Your poor prisoner in the flowerpot has not had a drop to drink since yesterday, when you brought it home. Have you any more troubles, my boy?" The question was so playfully asked, that Jemmy felt rather ashamed of his sighing and grumbling.