Christian had suffered more in the twelve years of his little life than it is to be hoped many endure in the course of an ordinary existence. A complication of diseases had left him in a state of weakness from which there was little or no hope that he would ever recover, and subject to occasional attacks of painful illness which must in time wear him out. He had not grown, nor set a foot to the ground, since he was five years old: he was harassed by a perpetual cough, and in constant dread of the return of a capricious and fearful pain which seldom left him unvisited for three days together, and sometimes lasted for hours. When in expectation of this pain, the poor boy could think of little else, and found it very difficult to care for any body; but when suffering from nothing worse than his usual helplessness, his great delight was to expect M. Aymond, and to get him seated beside his couch. Aymond thought that he heard few voices more cheerful than that of his little friend, Christian, when it greeted him from the open window, or made itself heard into the passage,--'Will you come in here, M. Aymond? I am in the wainscoat parlour to-day, M. Aymond.' Christian had no words at command this day, He stretched out his arms in silence, and sighed convulsively when released from the embrace of his friend. "Did I hurt you? Have you any of your pain to-day?" "No; not yet. I think it is coming; but never mind that now. Kaatje will stay with me till you come back. You will come back, M. Aymond." When the pastor consented, and the widow approached to bid farewell to her child for an hour, Christian threw his arms once more round Aymond's neck. His brother Luc, a rough strong boy of ten, pulled them down, and rebuked him for being so free with the pastor; and little Roselyn, the spoiled child of the family, was ready with her lecture too, and told how she had been instructed to cross her hands and wait till M. Aymond spoke to her, instead of jumping upon him as she did upon her brother Heins. Christian made no other reply to these rebukes than looking with a smile in the face of the pastor, with whom he had established too good an understanding to suppose that he could offend him by the warmth of an embrace. "I am sorry you cannot go with us, my poor little Christian," said Heins, who had a curious method of making his condolences irksome and painful to the object of them. "I am sorry you cannot pay this last duty to our honoured parent. You will not have our satisfaction in looking back upon the discharge of it." "Christian is singled out by God for a different duty," observed the pastor. "He must show cheerful submission to his heavenly parent while you do honour to the remains of an earthly one."