“Frieda has a little sister nine years old. Her name is Lotta, but they call her Liebchen. I think that is nice. I wonder if I could call Trump Liebchen sometimes! She is an American, because she was born here, but she is German Frieda’s full sister. She is a dreadful cripple; she can only walk a few steps with crutches and she can’t walk at all without them. When I asked Frieda if she couldn’t be cured she said it would cost a great deal, if it could be done. I--I----It seems so sad, doesn’t it, to know that a little girl, only nine years old, and so sweet they call her Liebchen, is a dreadful cripple?” Beth ended her story lamely; she could not bring herself to suggest to her uncle that he might have Liebchen operated upon when she came face to face with that issue. “And you thought that we would see what could be done for the child, if we knew about it?” asked Mrs. Cortlandt. “You could do less for me, Aunt Alida!” cried Beth eagerly. “You are so good to me, but I don’t need another earthly thing! Wouldn’t it be fine if Liebchen could be cured?” “Have you seen her, Beth?” asked Mr. Cortlandt. “No, but I can imagine her, all pale and peaked, just lying there, and poor, and only nine!” cried Beth eagerly. “An operation is exceedingly expensive, Beth,” said Mr. Cortlandt solemnly. “It would require a skilful surgeon, of course, and a thousand dollars would hardly cover the cost, probably.” “A thousand dollars! Oh, Uncle Jim! Isn’t that fearful! But if I could do something--couldn’t I sell something, or----” She stopped, unable to suggest anything practical. “There is Trump,” said Mr. Cortlandt thoughtfully, watching Beth’s face. He saw her turn red, then white and heard her catch her breath. “I have just bought that pony. I know he would sell easily--would you care to give up Trump to help that child, Beth?” Beth turned her face to hide it in her uncle’s shoulder. She breathed hard and fast. He heard her whisper: “‘The sacrifice of a broken heart Thou wilt not despise.’ And it will break it. Uncle Jim,” she said sitting up, a poor, white, strained looking Beth, “I will try, I will try to--to give up Trump.” “You’re the trump, my Bethikins!” cried Mr. Cortlandt just as Aunt Alida exclaimed: “James Cortlandt, you shall not torture my little Beth!”