THE CRIPPLED BOY.
FROM THE FRENCH.
DON’T cry any more, Genevieve; you must get married again,” said a man in the working dress of a slater, just returning from his day’s work, to a poor woman who was sitting at the foot of a camp bed, weeping, and rocking her baby at the same time. “Your husband is dead; he fell from a ladder, and it killed him. It is a great misfortune for you and your family; but crying won’t help you.”
Saying these words in a rough voice, to hide the emotion caused by the poor woman’s despair, the workman brushed away a tear with his coat sleeve.
“My poor George!” said the woman.
“If your son was only good for anything,” added the workman, rudely, throwing a glance of disdain upon a poor, pale, weak, and crippled boy, who was seated on the floor in a corner of the room; “if that child would ever grow into a man, I would take him with me, and teach him how to clamber over roofs, and to keep his balance upon the beams, and drop from the end of a rope. But no, he grows worse and worse every day; and now he can hardly bear his own weight. He is almost twelve years old, that son of yours; and if they said he was four, it would be a compliment.”
“Is it the fault of Jacques that he came crooked into the world, my brother?”
“No, certainly not. I don’t blame him, poor child, I don’t blame him; but he will always be a useless mouth in the world. Luckily, he will not live long,” he whispered in the ear of his sister. Then he rose, and went out, calling, “Good by till to-morrow,” in a tone of voice which betrayed the anxiety he felt at the situation of his sister and her children.
“Luckily I shall not live long,” was repeated by a sweet, sad voice, in an accent which only belongs to those who have suffered deeply.