Chapter 11

tiresome, that, when I thought of all the exercises I should have to write for Miss Harold, and all the letters that I must send to my relations when I grew up, I would have given everything I had in the world not to have learned to write. Oh! how I pitied papa, when I saw sometimes the pile of letters that were lying to go to the post!"

"And how do you like corresponding with Phil now?"

Agnes owned, with blushes, that she still dreaded the task for some days before, and felt particularly gay when it was done. Her mother believed that, if infants could think and look forward, they would be far more terrified with the prospect of having to walk on their two legs all their lives, than lame people could be at having to learn the art in part over again. Grown people are apt to doubt whether they can learn a new language, though children make no difficulty about it: the reason of which is, that grown people see at one view the whole labour, while children do not look beyond their daily task. Experience, however, always brings relief. Experience shows that every effort comes at its proper time, and that there is variety or rest in the intervals. People who have to wash and dress every morning have other things to do in the after-part of the day; and, as the old fable tells us, the clock that has to tick, before it is worn out, so many millions of times as it perplexes the mind to think of, has exactly the same number of seconds to do it in; so that it never has more work on its hands than it can get through. So Hugh would find that he could move about on each separate occasion, as he wanted; and practice would, in time, enable him to do it without any more thought than it now cost him to put all the bones of his hands in order, so as to carry his tea and bread-and-butter to his mouth.

"But that is not all--nor half what I mean," said Hugh.

"No, my dear; nor half what you will have to make up your mind to bear. You will have a great deal to bear, Hugh. You resolved to bear it all patiently, I remember: but what is it that you dread the most?"

"Oh! all manner of things. I can never do things like other people."

"Some things. You can never play cricket, as every Crofton boy would like to do. You can never dance at your sisters' Christmas parties."

"Oh! mamma!" cried Agnes, with tears in her eyes, and the thought in her mind that it was cruel to talk so.

"Go on! go on!" cried Hugh, brightening. "You know what I feel, mother; and you don't keep telling me, as aunt Shaw does (and even Agnes sometimes), that it wont signify much, and that I shall not care, and all that; making out that it is no misfortune hardly, when I know what it is, and they don't."

"That is a common way of trying to give comfort, and it is kindly meant," said Mrs. Proctor. "But those who have suffered much themselves know a better way. The best way is not to deny any of the trouble or the sorrow, and not to press on the sufferer any comforts which he cannot now see and enjoy. If comforts arise, he will enjoy them as they come."

"Now then, go on," said Hugh. "What else?"

"There will be little checks and mortifications continually--when you see boys leaping over this, and climbing that, and playing at the other, while you must stand out, and can only look on. And some people will pity you in a way you don't like; and some may even laugh at you."

"O mamma!" exclaimed Agnes.

"I have seen and heard children in the street do it," replied Mrs. Proctor. "This is a thing almost below notice; but I mentioned it while we were reckoning up our troubles."

"Well, what else?" said Hugh.

"Sooner or later, you will have to follow some way of life, determined by this accident, instead of one that you would have liked better. But we need not think of this yet:--not till you have become quite accustomed to your lameness."

"Well, what else?"

"I must ask you now. I can think of nothing more; and I hope there is not much else; for indeed I think here is quite enough for a boy--or any one else--to bear."

"I will bear it, though,--you will see."

"You will find great helps. These misfortunes, of themselves, strengthen one's mind. They have some advantages too. You will be a better scholar for your lameness, I have no doubt. You will read more books, and have a mind richer in thoughts. You will be more beloved;--not out of mere pity; for people in general will soon leave off pitying you, when once you learn to be active again; but because you have kept faith with your school-fellows, and shown that you can bear pain. Yes, you will be more loved by us all; and you yourself will love God more for having given you something to bear for his sake."

"I hope so,--I think so," said Hugh. "O mother! I may be very happy yet."

"Very happy; and, when you have once made up your mind to everything, the less you think and speak about it, the happier you will be. It is very right for us now, when it is all new, and strange, and painful, to talk it well over; to face it completely: but when your mind is made up, and you are a Crofton boy again, you will not wish to speak much of your own concerns, unless it be to me, or to Agnes, sometimes, when your heart is full."

"Or to Dale, when you are far off."

"Yes,--to Dale, or some one friend at Crofton. But there is only one Friend that one is quite sure to get strength from,--the same who has given strength to all the brave people that ever lived, and comfort to all sufferers. When the greatest of all sufferers wanted relief, what did he do?"

"He went by himself, and prayed," said Agnes.

"Yes, that is the way," observed Hugh, as if he knew by experience.

Mr. Shaw presently came, to say that tea was ready.

"I am too big a baby to be carried now," cried Hugh, gaily. "Let me try if I cannot go alone."

"Why,--there is the step at the parlour door," said Mr. Shaw, doubtfully. "At any rate, stop till I bring a light."

But Hugh followed close upon his uncle's heels, and was over the step before his aunt supposed he was half way across the hall. After tea, his uncle and he were so full of play, that the ladies could hardly hear one another speak till Hugh was gone to bed, too tired to laugh any more.