"To whom are you writing, Amos?" asked his mother, as she gave a loving glance at the wasted form of the crippled boy, bent over his father's desk.
Amos Franklin had never known what it was to be straight or strong like other boys. From infancy his legs had been crooked and his back bent, while pain and disease had shrunken his frame until, at fourteen, he looked no older than nine. But, as if to make amends, his mind was very active and his intelligence far in advance of his years.
"I will soon have finished, mother," he answered, with a smile, "and then I will read it."
His pen scratched away for a few minutes, and then he held up the sheet and read this:
"To the Girl with the Broken Leg:— I hope you will not fret or worry too much over your misfortune, because it will not be many days before you are out again, and in a short time be well and strong as ever. You have many happy days before you, when you can romp and run in the bright sunshine; and you must think of those days and not of the present. I will write to you again, if you say so.
"Your friend,
"AMOS FRANKLIN."
Mrs. Franklin listened to the reading of this letter with an amazed look.
"I don't understand it," she said. "Who is this girl, and where did you hear about the accident?"