Out in the hall he almost danced with rage.  “I’ll tell Hitty,” he stormed; “I won’t wait on him and do things for him any longer.  He’s the worst-tempered boy in the whole world.  I just won’t have another thing to do with him!  I’ll go and tell her so.”

Before he got half way to Mehitabel, however, he changed his mind, and stealing softly back, sat on the top step of the stairs, just outside Dave’s room, to wait till Dave should call him, to make up, as had happened more than once before.  Stevie determined he wouldn’t go in of his own accord—­he said Dave had been “too contemptibly mean.”  So he sat there with a very obstinate look on his little face, his elbows on his knees and his chin in his palms, staring at the patch of blue sky which was visible through the hall window nearest him.

But somehow, after a while Stevie’s anger began to cool, and he began to feel sorry for Dave, and to wonder if the cushion had hurt him—­a corner of it might have struck his eye!  The paper-weight had hurt quite a good deal; but then he could get out of the way of such things, while Dave couldn’t dodge, he had to lie there and take what Stevie threw.  Poor Dave! and he might lie in that helpless way for years yet—­the doctors had said perhaps by the time he was twenty-one he might be able to walk.  What a long time to have to wait!  Poor Dave!  Stevie wondered if he would behave better than Dave if he were twelve years old and as helpless as his cousin.  Mehitabel said they were both fond of their own way and loved to order people about; he guessed all boys loved their own way, whether they were nine or twelve years old.

And then suddenly there came to Stevie the remembrance of a picture that hung in his mamma’s room.  It was a print of a famous painting, and it represented a Boy of twelve, with a bright, eager, beautiful face, standing among grave, dark-browed, white-robed men.  Mamma and Stevie had often talked about the Boy there pictured, and Stevie knew that He had not loved His own way, for He “pleased not Himself.”  He wouldn’t have quarreled with Dave!  He had been a real Boy, too; He knew just what other boys had to go through, all their trials and temptations, and mamma had said over and over that she knew He just loved to help those other boys to be good and unselfish and patient.

Then He must know all about poor Dave’s having to lie helpless all the time.  A wistful look came into Stevie’s eyes.  Oh, if Jesus were only on earth now, he thought, how quickly they would all take Dave to Him to be healed!  Or perhaps He would come to the sick boy, as He did to some of those others in the Bible.  Stevie pictured to himself the tall, gracious figure, clad in long, trailing robes, the holy face, the tender eyes.  He would lay His hand on Dave and say:  “Son”—­Stevie thought that was such a beautiful word—­“Son, rise up and walk.”  And immediately Dave would spring to his feet, well and strong.  And then after that, of course, they—­for he, too, would be present—­would be so good and kind and patient that they wouldn’t think of quarreling and throwing things at each other.