* * * * *

At the very moment when poor Joe was thinking that no one on earth cared for him, that not a heart was the sadder for his sorrow, a kind heart not far off was feeling very much for him.  “I shall not go to church to-night, aunt Agnes,” said Emilie Schomberg, “I shall go and hear what Sir J.C.’s opinion of poor Joe White is.  I cannot get that poor fellow out of my mind.”

“No, poor boy, it is a sad case,” said aunt Agnes, “but why it should keep you from church, my dear, I don’t see. I shall go.”

So they trotted off, Emilie promising to leave aunt Agnes safe at the church door, where she met the Parkers just about to enter.  “Oh Emilie,” said little Edith, “poor Joe! we have had Sir J.C.’s opinion, and it is quite as had if not worse than papa’s, there is so much disease and such great injury done.  He is all alone, Emilie, do go and sit with him.”

“It is just what I wish to do, dear, but do you think he will let me?”

“Yes, oh yes, try at least,” said Edith, and they parted.

When Emilie rang at the bell Joe was in the midst of his sorrow, but thinking it might only be a summons for Mr. Parker, he did not take much notice of it until the door opened and the preaching German lady, as he called Emilie, entered the room.  When she saw his swollen eyes and flushed face, she wished that she had not intruded, but she went frankly up to him, and began talking as indifferently as possible, to give him time to recover himself, said how very cold it was, stirred the fire into a cheerful blaze, and then relapsed into silence.  The silence was broken at times by heavy sighs, however—­they were from poor Joe.  Emilie now went to the piano, and in her clear voice sang softly that beautiful anthem, “I will arise and go to my Father.”  It was not the first time that Joe had shown something like emotion at the sound of music; now it softened and composed him.  “I should like to hear that again,” he said, in a voice so unlike his own that Emilie was surprised.

She sang it and some others that she thought he would like, and then said, “I hope I have not tired you, but I am afraid you are in pain.”

“I am,” said Joe, in his old gruff uncivil voice, “in great pain.”

“Can I do any thing for you?” asked Emilie, modestly.

“No nothing, nothing can be done!  I shall have to lie on my back as long as I live, and never walk or stand or do any thing like other boys—­but I hope I shan’t live long, that’s all.”

Emilie did not attempt to persuade him that it would not be as bad as he thought—­that he would adapt himself to his situation, and in time grow reconciled to it.  She knew that his mind was in no state to receive such consolation, that it rather needed full and entire sympathy, and this she could and did most sincerely offer.  “I am very sorry for you,” she said quietly, “very sorry,” and she approached a little nearer to his couch, and looked at him so compassionately that Joe believed her.