There was a large blade and a small blade; there was a little saw, a gimlet, a bradawl, a tiny screwdriver, and a little pair of pincers.
Tom's eyes sparkled, and even Arthur would not have disdained the pretty present.
"Shall I ever be able to use any of them?" asked Tom.
"Yes, we think you will. Christina has sent you some light wood, and directions how to make various little things; and she thought, Tom, you might perhaps like to do something for the missionaries."
"I should very much, if I could."
"We will see then some morning when you are extra well."
"All right," answered Tom, shutting up the different parts of his knife with great pride, and then it lay in his hand, while he turned a little to refresh himself with a sight of his sisters and his dear Nellie. He thought how nice they all looked in their plain, warm winter dresses, and then his eyes wandered to his mother.
She was the very light of Tom's eyes. How he loved to see her come in and out. There were times, seeming long ago now to little Tom, but not much more than a year really, when he had been fretful and impatient to this loved mother, adding greatly to her cares by repining at his helpless state, and grumbling at his deprivations. He had perhaps loved her then as much as he did now; but how different was the whole of his life!
The children sometimes said, "We think Tom is getting better;" but Tom knew it was not so.
No, there was just this difference: before, he had tried to bear his affliction as well as he knew how, while secretly chafing against the accident which had deprived him of every pleasure in life, and unable to help venting his misery on his tender mother.