start.

It seemed a long time after the bell rang before the door opened.
But at last Maida saw the reason of the delay. The little boy who
stood on the threshold was lame. Maida would have known that he was
sick even if she had not seen the crutches that held him up, or the
iron cage that confined one leg.

His face was as colorless as if it had been made of melted wax. His
forehead was lined almost as if he were old. A tired expression in
his eyes showed that he did not sleep like other children. He must
often suffer, too—his mouth had a drawn look that Maida knew well.

The little boy moved slowly over to the counter. It could hardly be
said that he walked. He seemed to swing between his crutches exactly
as a pendulum swings in a tall clock. Perhaps he saw the sympathy
that ran from Maida’s warm heart to her pale face, for before he
spoke he smiled. And when he smiled you could not possibly think of
him as sick or sad. The corners of his mouth and the corners of his
eyes seemed to fly up together. It made your spirits leap just to
look at him.

“I’d like a sheet of red tissue paper,” he said briskly.

Maida’s happy expression changed. It was the first time that anybody
had asked her for anything which she did not have.

“I’m afraid I haven’t any,” she said regretfully.

The boy looked disappointed. He started to go away. Then he turned