ALEXANDER THE LITTLE’S FOREIGN MISSION.

had buttons left over, she saved them for me; the cook stepped on this one, so
I play he is lame and cannot fight; all he can do is to give a cup of cold water
to the wounded.”

“ He isn’t a boy,” sighed Sister Agatha to the house-mother ; “ he is an angel.”

And so, indeed, it seemed, as the days grew into weeks and even after a night
of sleepless pain, Alexander always uncomplainingly greeted Sister Agatha with
a smile, or was ready with his return salute to the doctor, when his transparent
little hand seemed too feeble to be raised. On his stronger days a light board
was placed on the bed, and, propped up on pillows, he was permitted to range his
army in battle array. The combats that took place on that counterpane should
have made it one of the memorable spots of earth. What did it matter that
Alexander displayed a disregard for historical facts, and jumbled ancient and
modern, sacred and profane personages, with innocent freedom from irreverence,
into an heroic medley that refused to recognize any incongruity. Alexander
was pitted against Napoleon at Bunker Hill; Washington and King David
fought side by side at Agincourt; Wellington was ignominiously beaten by
Custer at Marston Moor. Occasionally a “bang” full of melancholy enjoyment,
denoted the execution of Major André, or the funeral notes were heard piping,
in satisfied if subdued pleasure, over Sir John Moore’s midnight grave.

“Does it hurt, my boy ?” asked the doctor, as Alexander winced while the
splint was being set.

“A little,’ answered the child; “but I play it was a wound I received at
Flodden, and then it doesn’t hurt as much. Last night, when I lay awake and
was thirsty, I could not call Sister Agatha. So I made believe I was Sir Philip
Sidney, who had just given his drink of water to the dying soldier.”

One morning, Sister Agatha noticed Alexander’s lips silently moving.

“«« What is it, dear?” she questioned.

“JT was saying ‘Chevy Chace’ to myself,” he answered. “It is very com-
fortable to be able to say poetry to one’s self when one lies awake.”

Something of the old light and sparkle came into his eyes — it may be, too,
something of the old throb into his heart, yet with a difference — as he repeated
the stirring lines of the ballad, in their quaint rendering :

«« The Persé owt of Northumberlande
And a vowe to God mayd he
That he wolde hunte in the mountayns
Off Chyviat within days thre,

In the mauger of doughte Doglas
And all that ever with him be.’”

When he came to the words

“¢¢ TI] do the best that do I may x
While I have powre to stande!’ ”

then the light died out of his eyes, and Alexander was silent.