nurse had told him that his father was a rich man; and that father's riches would be his one day, to deal with for the good of the men under him, for their happiness and the glory of God. It was a great and beautiful thought, and Dickie loved it.
He loved, indeed, everything in this new life—the shapes and colours of furniture and hangings, the kind old nurse, the friendly laughing maids, the old doctor with his long speeches and short smiles, his bed, his room, the ships, the river, the trees, the gardens—the very sky seemed cleaner and brighter than the sky that had been over the Deptford that Dickie Harding had known.
And then came the day when the nurse, having dressed him, bade him walk to the window, instead of being carried, as, so far, he had been.
"Where . . ." he asked, hesitatingly, "where's my . . .? Where have you put the crutch?"
Then the old nurse laughed.
"Crutch?" she said. "Come out of thy dreams. Thou silly boy! Thou wants no crutch with two fine, straight, strong legs like thou's got. Come, use them and walk."
Dickie looked down at his feet. In the old New Cross days he had not liked to look at his feet. He had not looked at them in these new days. Now he looked. Hesitated.
"Come," said the nurse encouragingly.
He slid from the high bed. One might as well try. Nurse seemed to think . . . He touched
