It was the man I had last looked upon as, dying, he
sat beside me in the hut below the Jungfrau. But something had
happened to him. Moved by instinct I went over to him and lifted
him out of his chair, and with a sob the little wizened arms closed
round my neck and he clung to me crying--a pitiful, low, wailing
cry.
Hearing his cry, the woman came back. A comely, healthy-looking
woman. She took him from my arms and comforted him.
"He gets a bit sorry for himself at times," she explained. "At
least, so I fancy. You see, he can't run about like other children,
or do anything without getting pains."
"Was it an accident?" I asked.
"No," she answered, "and his father as fine a man as you would find
in a day's march. Just a visitation of God, as they tell me. Sure
I don't know why. There never was a better little lad, and clever,
too, when he's not in pain. Draws wonderfully."
The storm had passed. He grew quieter in her arms, and when I had
promised to come again and bring him a new picture-book, a little
grateful smile flickered across the drawn face, but he would not
talk.
I kept in touch with him. Mere curiosity would have made me do
that. He grew more normal as the years went by, and gradually the
fancy that had come to me at our first meeting faded farther into
the background.
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