I think I still see him seated on the side of his bed, with his little black silk cap, his spectacles and the well-worn volume, which he never ceased perusing.  Every morning, the first rays of the sun rested on his bed, always to him a fresh subject of rejoicing and thankfulness to God.  To witness his gratitude, one might suppose that the sun was rising for him alone.  I need hardly say, that he soon interested himself in my cure, and regularly made inquiry respecting its progress.  He always found something cheering to say—­something to inspire patience and hope, himself a living commentary on his words.  When I looked at this poor motionless figure, those distorted limbs, and, crowning all, that smiling countenance, I had not courage to be angry, or even to complain.  At each painful crisis, he would exclaim:  “One minute, and it will be over.  Relief will soon follow. Every day has its to-morrow!”

I had one good and true friend—­a fellow-workman, who used sometimes to spare an hour to visit me, and he took great delight in cultivating an acquaintance with No. 12.  As if attracted by a kindred spirit, he never passed his bed without pausing to offer his cordial salutation; and then he would whisper to me:  “He is a saint on earth; and not content with gaining Paradise himself, must win it for others also.  Such people should have monuments erected to them, known and read of all men.  In observing such a character, we feel ashamed of our own happiness—­we feel how comparatively little we deserve it.  Is there anything I can do to prove my regard for this good, poor No. 12?”

“Just try among the bookstalls,” I replied, “and find the second volume of that book you see him reading.  It is now more than six years since he lost it, and ever since he has been obliged to content himself with the first.”

Now, I must premise that my worthy friend had a perfect horror of literature, even in its simplest stages.  He regarded the art of printing as a Satanic invention, filling men’s brains with idleness and conceit; and as to writing—­in his opinion a man was never thoroughly committed until he had recorded his sentiments in black and white for the inspection of his neighbours.  His own success in life, which had been tolerable, thanks to his industry and integrity, he attributed altogether to his ignorance of those dangerous arts; and now a cloud swept across his lately beaming face as he exclaimed, “What! the good creature is a lover of books?  Well, we must admit that even the best have their failings.  No matter.  Write down the name of this odd volume on a slip of paper; and it shall go hard with me, but I give him that gratification.”

He did actually return the following week with a well-worn volume, which he presented in triumph to the old invalid.  He looked somewhat surprised as he opened it; but our friend proceeding to explain that it was at my suggestion he had procured it in place of the lost one, the old grateful expression at once beamed up in the eyes of No. 12, and with a voice trembling with emotion, he thanked the hearty giver.