"I love him," continued the child, "and I should think you would;" then, after waiting a moment, he asked, "Did he cut your legs off?"
"No," said the man, laughing; "the doctor did it."
"I'm glad of that," said Frankie. "You ought to love God, and pray to him every day. Perhaps, if you did, he would let your legs grow again."
Willie almost laughed aloud; but Frankie was so eager to do the man good, that he did not hear him.
"I am afraid you are a wicked man," he said, "if you don't pray any."
Mrs. Gray saw the cripple lay down his knife and fork, and gaze at the child; presently he spoke, but his voice trembled as he said, "I used to pray when I was a little shaver like you. My mother taught me."
"Where is she now?" asked the boy.
"She has gone up there, long ago," said the man, softly pointing his finger upward.
"Well," said Frankie, earnestly, "you can't go to heaven and live with her there, unless you are a good man and love God. I used to be naughty once, but my mother whipped me to make me good."
"That's too bad," said the cripple.