he does, he will never be very strong."

Mrs. Stevens smoothed Clinton's pillow even more tenderly than before. Poor
Clinton! who had always been such a rollicking, rosy-cheeked lad. Surely it
was hard to bear.

The long March days dragged slowly along, and April was well advanced
before Clinton could sit at the window, and watch the grass grow green on
the slope of the lawn. He looked frail and delicate. He had a cough, too, a
troublesome "bark," that he always kept back as long as he could.

The bright sunlight poured steadily in through the window, and Clinton held
up his hand to shield his eyes. "Why, Ma Stevens!" he said, after a moment,
"just look at my hands! They are as thin and white as a girl's, and they
used to be regular paws. It does not look as if I would pull many weeds for
Mr. Carter this summer, does it?"

Mrs. Stevens took his thin hands in her own patient ones. "Never mind,
dearie," she said, "they will grow plump and brown again, I hope." A group
of school-children were passing by, shouting and frolicking. Clinton leaned
forward and watched them till the last one was gone. Some of them waved
their caps, but he did not seem elated. "Mother," he said, presently, "I
believe I will go to bed if you will help me. I--I guess I am not quite
so--strong--now as I used to be."

Clinton did not pull weeds for Mr. Carter that summer, but he rode around
with the milkman, and did a little outdoor work for his mother, which
helped him to mend. One morning in July he surprised the village by riding
out on his bicycle; but he overdid the matter, and it was several weeks
before he again appeared. His cough still continued, though not so severe