“I had no idea, doctor, that he was as bad as that.”

“Well, he is, I can assure you, and it is a fortunate thing that I happened to come across him.  Why, I haven’t seen so bad a case of chilblains these ten years.”

“What ought I to do for him, doctor?” asked Sharp, in real concern.

“I have done all that is necessary at present,” replied the doctor.  “But he must be suffered to have rest; and, as you value his limbs, don’t let him be exposed to the wet or cold until his feet are healed, and the tenderness and soreness are both gone.”

“I shall attend to your direction, most certainly,” said Sharp, his manner greatly changed from what it was when the doctor came in.  “But, really, doctor,” he continued, “I had no idea that there was any danger in getting the feet a little frosted.”

“The chilblains are not only extremely painful,” replied Doctor R—­, “but there is great danger, where the feet are exposed to wet and cold, as Henry’s must have been to get in the condition they are, of mortification supervening.  That little boy will require great care, or he will stand a chance of being crippled for life.  Good-morning!”

Poor Henry!  How eagerly had he hung upon the doctor’s words; how almost agonizing had been his desire for even the slightest intimation that he was remembered by the physician, to whose mistaken kind offices he was indebted for the place he held in the family of Sharp!  But all was in vain.  A dozen times he was on the eve of asking for his mother; but, as often, weak timidity held him back.  In the presence of his master, fear kept him dumb.  It seemed to him as if life would go out when he saw Doctor R—­turn away from the shop and enter his carriage.  A deep darkness fell upon his spirit.

As Doctor R—­rode off in his carriage, he could not help congratulating himself on the good deed he had performed.  Still he did not feel altogether satisfied about the boy.  He had been so much concerned for his distressed situation, that he had failed to make any inquiries of him in regard to his friends; and for this he blamed himself, because it was clear that, if the child had friends they ought to know his condition.  He blamed himself for this thoughtlessness, and a consciousness of having performed but half of his duty to the poor boy caused a shade of concern to steal over him, which he could not shake off.

And Henry, as he stood frightened in the shop, felt, as the carriage-wheels rattled away, the hope that had awakened faint and trembling in his heart, sinking into the gloom of despair.  One who could have told him of his mother; one who, if he had only taken the courage to have mentioned his name, could have taken tidings of his condition to her, or perhaps would have carried him home, had been beside him for half an hour, and he had not spoken out.  And now he was gone.  He felt so sick and weak that he could hardly stand.

From his sad, waking dreams he was roughly startled by the loud, sharp voice of his mistress, who, attracted by the strong expressions of Doctor R—­, now entered the shop, exclaiming—­