He was small for his age, but he had a large and peculiarly-shaped head. His abnormally developed forehead contrasted almost grotesquely with the receding chin, and his small nose was out of proportion with both. His eyes were large, and surmounted by heavy lids, but there was little intelligence in their depths. They roamed shiftily from one object to another, never concentrating their gaze on anything for more than two or three seconds at a time. His mouth was large and weak, and he was unable to close it with firmness. Moreover, he was afflicted by an impediment in his speech, which added to the difficulty he experienced in making himself understood. To strangers, it was hard to understand the purpose of the poor lad’s existence, for to the end of his life he could be nothing but a useless burden. But his grandmother loved him, and never considered him a load of care. Since her husband’s death, she had saved and pinched in order to put by enough to keep the boy when she was gone. It was nothing to her that he could not understand and appreciate her self-denial; all the wealth of her affection was lavished on the lad. He took no notice of Patricia’s outstretched hand, but glanced at her out of the corner of his eyes, whilst Mrs. Whiteside coaxed him to say “How do you do?” to the lady. Montella’s deep voice seemed to attract his attention more than Patricia’s gentle tones, and an expression which was almost intelligent passed over his countenance as he gazed steadily for a moment at the stalwart figure of the man. Montella noticed it, and smiled back encouragingly, but he could not persuade the boy to speak. “Do you think he has improved at all?” he inquired of the grandmother, whose face beamed with pride. “I suppose he is not able to go to school?” “Oh, no; I couldn’t bear to trust him out of my sight, and to think that the other boys might make game of him. Besides, he could not learn anything, poor lamb. There will be time enough for him to learn when he has put off this mortal flesh, and received his incorruptible inheritance.” She spoke so cheerfully that Lionel was puzzled. “Do you mean when he has finished with this life?” he asked. She nodded. “That thought is my greatest comfort, Master Linie,” she replied. “You see, if poor Tom cannot do any work in the world by reason of his poor weak brain, he cannot commit sins either. I would far rather have him as he is than see him grow up to drink and gamble like Widow Robson’s son next door. And I know that the Lord will make up to him in the next world for all he has missed in this; so you see that it will all come right in the end, after all.” “What faith you have!” exclaimed Patricia, in admiration. “I suppose that you would have him cured if you could, all the same?”