AEE CAN DER Stem iiebs SORE |G Ness Sie

T was a very old collection in three battered leather volumes, with brown

print and yellowed pages, quaint spelling, obsolete words an s’s that

looked like f’s. On the fly-leaf read: “ Ancient Songs and Ballads. Printed
for J. Dodsley, in Pall Mall, London.”

Because Alexander’s mother had loved the old ballads, ever since she had
pored over them in her own childhood, and longed to have her little boy catch
something of the spirit with which they rang, she read from them every
night at his bedside. There was “King Hstmere” and “The Rising in the
North,” “ Fair Rosamond,” “Sir Aldingar” and “The Nut Brown Mayd,” and,
best of all, “ Chevy Chace.” Alexander never tired of “Chevy Chace,” till by,
and by he and his mother could repeat it in duet, the child’s eyes shining with
excitement, and his heart throbbing with regret that he could not be “ brave,
true and loyal” till he grew up.

His grandmother thought such reading was “ too old” for him, and sent him
books better suited toachild. Alexander could not understand them, but found
them useful in building moats and drawbridges for Ivanhoe and his compeers.

His pretty, gentle mother died, and it was soon after that the accident hap-
pened —a fall over the stairs. It was so slight as to have been forgotten but for
its consequences, months after —a limp that was chidden as a childish freak ; but
by and by Alexander said he “couldn’t help it,” and the doctor was called, who
looked grave and pronounced it hip-disease. For long months, a pale, helpless
cripple lay outstretched on his little bed. Then the doctor said there was a
chance —a very slight one, he would not encourage vain hopes — that an opera-
tion might result favorably ; he would recommend that the child be taken to
the hospital.

Alexander’s father, who was a captain in the navy, had been ordered to
China, and there was scarcely more than time for him to await the result of the
operation, and say good-by to his little son.

After his father’s footsteps had died away, Alexander lay very still, with a
bag of something that looked like marbles clasped with both hands to his breast.
In that attitude, with his shining brown hair, tipped with its baby gold, lying in
short curls in his neck, and with his large, questioning brown eyes, the child
looked, thought Sister Agatha, like the picture of the ill-fated little Dauphin.

“Do you want anything, dear?” she asked.

“Q, no, thank you,” returned Alexander, politely.

He had a deliberate fashion of saying (Ono) aoO> aveca dimen ply, to the
simplest question, as though he had given the matter all his distinguished con-
sideration, in due regard for the snteyeet displayed. And then, Alexander was