"Now take that bucket of cold water, and let him put his feet into it," said he to a little girl they had just taken to raise, and who stood near the kitchen window, her heart almost ready to burst at the cruelty inflicted upon the only one in the house with whom she had a single feeling in common.
The girl quickly obeyed, and sat down on the floor beside the bucket of water. She handled tenderly the blood red feet of the little boy, ever and anon looking up into his face, and noting, with tender solicitude, the deep lines of suffering upon his forehead.
"There, that will do," said Sharp, who stood looking on, "and now run up stairs and get a better pair of stockings for Henry."
"What do you want with a better pair of stockings?" said Mrs. Sharp, a few moments after, bustling down into the kitchen.
"Why, I want them for Henry," replied her husband.
"Want them for Henry!" she exclaimed, in surprise. "Where's the ones he had on?"
"There are some old rags in the shop that he had on; but they won't do now, with such feet as he's got."
"What's the matter with his feet, I'd like to know," inquired Mrs. Sharp.
"Why, they're frosted."
"Let him put them in snow, then. That'll cure 'em. It's nothing but a little snow-burn, I suppose."