"Is your mother a teacher?" Winifred inquired with interest.
"Yes, she gives music lessons, and she plays beautifully too. We have a piano, because Jack loves music so, and mother plays to him almost every evening."
"I guess cripples always like music," said Winifred reflectively. "Mr. Bradford had a lovely music box; it played twelve tunes."
"Who is Mr. Bradford?"
"He was a crippled gentleman I used to know. He was very kind, and I loved him very much. I used to read to him, and he liked it. He died last winter."
"Some cripples are quite strong in other ways, you know," Betty hastened to explain. Winifred's remark about dying had made her vaguely uncomfortable. "Jack isn't nearly so delicate as he used to be. I think if he could only get out in the fresh air sometimes he would be ever so much better."
"Doesn't he ever go out?"
"No. You see, he can't walk at all, and he's too heavy to carry far. It's awfully hard for him never to see anything but chimneys. Our apartment is in the rear, so he can't even see the trolley cars."
"Why don't you take him for a drive sometimes?" Winifred asked sympathetically.
Betty's eyes sparkled.