"I don't suppose that any of them went on crutches," suggested Dick.
Hal thought not. "One of them was lame," said he. "His name was Epictetus; he was an eminent philosopher. It was through his master's cruelty; and that was very hard to bear. But crutches don't matter to some sorts of greatness," added he. "You wouldn't get along very well on crutches if you wanted to fight; and fighting isn't always wrong either, though I don't like it. Where you do it to put down injustice, for instance, or to help the weaker side, it's noble and right."
"Or if you do it to defend your wife and children," put in Dick.
"There were some great men deformed," continued Hal. "There was Pope. He had to be laced up in a pair of tight stays to keep him from doubling up; he used to sit up in bed and write poetry. I've read some of it, and it's very fine. 'Whatever is, is right,' comes from Pope; and though you can't say that of everything, there is a sense in which it is very true. But Pope wasn't brave always. He used to be very disagreeable to his servant when he was in pain; and I think if any one was really great, they would rise superior to affliction, and not make other people feel it. You see," added Hal, in a tone of reflection, "it's bad enough for one person to go on crutches, without making all the rest miserable."
"You mean to be great, I suppose," observed Dick admiringly. "What shall you be?"
Hal reflected. "That's difficult to say exactly," said he. "Of course I've got to be the Lord of the Manor."
"You have?" interrupted Dick. "I thought it was your tallest brother."
"Will?—No; it's always the eldest son. I'm the eldest," added Hal, just a trifle proudly.
Dick was astonished. He had made up his mind from the very first, that Hal was the youngest of the three.
"You see, I'm short," said Hal simply. "It makes you grow slowly when you're like this."