"Dreadfully sometimes; it makes me cross and naughty, and then I'm so sorry afterwards. I tell the dear Lord Jesus about it, and oh! how I wish He was on earth now! I would get mother to go to Him, and ask Him to cure me. As it is, I'll have to wait till I die to get well."
"Well, one thing is certain," Theodore remarked with conviction in his tones, "you can't fight."
"Fight!" Jack exclaimed, in accents of surprise, whilst his mother looked somewhat startled, and Mr. Barton turned from the window and surveyed his son in amazement.
"Yes, fight," Theodore continued. "I meant to fight you, you know. Boys always fight; but I couldn't hit a fellow who's lame—it wouldn't be fair play."
"Theodore!" interposed his father angrily. "You talk like a perfect little savage!"
The child coloured hotly, and hung his head at the rebuke.
Mrs. Barton laid her hand kindly on his shoulder, as she said somewhat wistfully, "I hope you and Jack will be friends, Theodore. You are so strong, my dear, that I shall feel you are quite a protector for him."
Theodore looked up brightly and smiled. "Yes," he answered, "I'm very strong. I can run faster than much bigger boys, and I can climb trees, and ride Jigger—that's my pony, you know—bare-backed. If you like," with an air of condescension, "I will look after your little boy for you. The village boys are very rough."
"Jack will hardly come much in contact with the village boys, I should say," Mr. Barton interposed dryly.
"You see, Theodore," Jack explained, "I never go out except in my chair. I can't walk."