"Amos!" she exclaimed, reproachfully.
"Now, mother, I'm not complaining; but I know I am useless. I can never earn my living by any kind of work, and I'm not talented enough to be an artist or designer; but I thought if I could only do something to help somebody, and all of a sudden it flashed upon me that there were boys and girls worse off than I am, and I might make them happy. And you think it will?"
"Decidedly, I do. It is a noble thought, Amos, and I am proud of your idea."
"Then I will write some more," he said, simply.
A week or two passed and Amos had a dozen little correspondents, who each and all wanted to see him; but he gently evaded their requests, and only wrote longer letters.
"They must think I am well and strong," he said.
Then one day there came a handsome carriage to the door, and a gray-haired gentleman called on Amos.
"I want to see my assistant," he said, in a deep, hearty voice. "I am Doctor Parkerson. Where is the boy who has been helping me make my little patients get well?"
It was a proud moment for Amos when the great physician, whose name was world-renowned, took him by the hand and thanked him.
"You are a true philanthropist, my boy," he said, warmly. "Medicine and care are well enough, but kind words and sympathy are great helps. And you are a sufferer, yourself! Perhaps I can do something to make you happy in return."