The sick man shook his head.

"As I came along just now," continued the neighbor, "I stopped to
say a word to poor Tom Hicks, the cripple, as he stood swinging on
the gate before his mother's house, looking so unhappy that I pitied
him in my heart. 'What do you do with yourself all through these
long days, Tom?' I asked. 'Nothing,' he replied, moodily. 'Don't you
read sometimes?' I queried. 'Can't read,' was his sullen answer.
'Were you never at school?' I went on. 'No: how can I get to
school?' 'Why don't your mother teach you?' 'Because she can't read
herself,' replied Tom. 'It isn't too late to begin now,' said I,
encouragingly; 'suppose I were to find some one willing to teach
you, what would you say?' The poor lad's face brightened as if the
sunshine had fallen upon it; and he answered, 'I would say that
nothing could please me better.' I promised to find him a teacher;
and, as I promised, the thought of you, friend Croft, came into my
mind. Now, here is something that you can do; a good work in which
you can employ your one talent."

The sick man did not respond warmly to this proposition. He had been
so long a mere recipient of good offices,--had so long felt himself
the object towards which pity and service must tend,--that he had
nearly lost the relish for good deeds. Idle dependence had made him
selfish.

"Give this poor cripple a lesson every day," went on the neighbor,
pressing home the subject, "and talk and read to him. Take him in
charge as one of God's children, who needs to be instructed and led
up to a higher life than the one he is now living. Is not this a