“Very well, my boy, I will be there in a little while, But, bless me! you will get the croup as well as Johnny, if you go out in such weather as this and have on no warmer clothing than covers you now.  Come up to the stove and warm yourself—­you are shivering all over.  Why did not you bring an umbrella?”

“Mr. Maxwell never lets me take the umbreller,” said the boy innocently.

“He doesn’t?  But he sends you out in the rain?”

“Oh yes—­always.  Sometimes I am wet all day.”

“Doesn’t it make you sick?”

“I feel bad, and ache all over sometimes after I have been wet; and sometimes my face swells up and pains me so I can’t sleep.”

“Do not your feet get very cold?  Have you no better shoes than these?”

“I’ve got a better pair of shoes:  but they hurt my feet so I can’t wear them.  Thomas, one of the boys, gave me these old ones.”

“Why do they hurt your feet?  Are they too small?”

“No, sir, I don’t think they are.  But my feet are sore.”

I feared as much as this.  “What is the matter with your feet?” I asked.

“I don’t know, sir.  The boys say that nothing’s the matter with them, only they’re a little snow-burnt.”

“How do they feel?”

“They burn and itch, and are so tender I can hardly touch them.  I can’t sleep at nights sometimes for the burning and itching.”

I examined the boy’s feet, and found them red, shining and tumefied, with other indications of a severe attack of chilblains.

“What have you done for your feet?” I asked.  “Does Mr. Maxwell know they are so bad?”

“I showed them to him, and he said it was only a snow-burn, and that I must put my feet in snow and let it draw the cold out.”

“Did you do so?”

“Yes, sir, as long as I could bear it; but it hurt dreadful bad.  Mr. Maxwell said I didn’t keep them in half long enough.”

“Were they better afterward?”

“Yes, sir, I think they were; but I go out so much in the snow, and get them wet so often, that they can’t get well.”

“What is your name?” I asked.

“William.”

“What else?”

“William Miller.”

“Is your mother alive?”

The tone and manner of the boy, when he gave a half inarticulate negative, made me regret having asked the question.  It was a needless one, for already knew that his mother was dead.  It was meant, however, as a preliminary inquiry, and, having been made, I proceeded to question him, in order to learn something, briefly, of his history.

“Were you born in Baltimore?” I continued.

“Yes, sir.”

“Have you any relatives here?”

“Mr. P——­W——­is my uncle.”

“Mr. W——?” I said, in surprise.

“Yes, sir—­mother said he was my uncle.”

“Is he your mother’s brother?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did he ever come to see your mother?”