"Johnny Hamilton!" repeated Amity. She was trying to remember where she had heard the name.
"Hear him? I should think I did," said another girl, very much "dressed up" with a sash and scarlet stockings. "I never heard such a noise. Ma says it is a shame to have such a wretched object about the house, and she means to speak to Mr. H. about it."
"Who is he?"
"Oh, he is a miserable little idiot! He doesn't know anything at all."
"My mother says it is wrong to call 'an idiot,'" said Emma Fairchild. "He can talk plain, and sensibly too, only he is so very slow, and can't seem to think of what he wants to say. He likes to be read to, and you never saw any one so fond of music. Mrs. Franklin told mother that was one reason she staid here—because Johnny liked to hear the band and see the people. He has very bad attacks of pain sometimes, and then he cries as he did last night; but generally he is very good and pleasant."
"He hasn't sense enough to be anything else," said Maud, with the usual toss of her head.
"It takes very little sense to be disagreeable," remarked Emma, demurely. "See, there he comes! Let's go and speak to him. He always likes that."
Amity looked at the pale lame little boy, whom a kind-looking lady was carefully placing in an arm chair by the window. Yes, it was the same little boy she had seen in New York.
"Just see him!" said Maud, in a loud whisper. "Now doesn't he look like an idiot?"
"No, I don't think he does; and anyway, Maud, we ought not to stare at him. Aunt Julia says it is very rude to stare at a person who has anything odd or unfortunate about him. I have seen this little boy before. I wonder if he will know me!"