Becky returned the nod, and seated herself by the side of the cripple.
“You seem to have a pretty hard time of it.”
“Do I?” said the cripple, smiling. “Well, I suppose to you, who have two feet to run about on, it does seem hard. But it’s the best I can do, the best I ever could do; and so I don’t mind it a bit.”
“You don’t mean to say that you like being a cripple,” said Becky, in astonishment. “I never could be contented in that way—never!”
“No, I don’t think I like it; but I cannot help it. It must always be so. It’s hip trouble. I only try to make the best of it. The hardest to bear are the hard, grinding pains that come sometimes. O, they are terrible! But they come and go; and after they’re gone I’m real comfortable till—the next.”
“Well, you’re a brave girl, any way,” said Becky. “What’s your name, please?”
“Why, don’t you know Jenny York? I thought everybody knew me. What’s yours?”
“Becky Sleeper.”
“What! the tomboy?”