"Here, carry this hat home," said his master, as he came in from the street, not seeming to notice the expression of suffering that was on his face, nor the evident pain with which he walked. Henry took the hat and started out. He was but a few paces from the shop, before he found that the shoes rubbed both heels, and pressed upon them at the same time so hard as to produce a sensation at each step as if the skin were torn off. Sometimes he would stop and wait a moment or two, until the intolerable pain subsided, and then he would walk on again with all the fortitude and power of endurance he could command. In this extreme suffering, the uppermost thought in his mind, when on the street, kept his eyes wandering about, and scanning every female form that came in sight, in the ever-living hope of seeing his mother. But the sigh of disappointment told too frequently, that he looked in vain. He had not proceeded far, when the pains in his feet became so acute that he paused, and leaned against a tree-box, unable for a time to move forward a single step. While resting thus, Doctor R--, who had been called to visit a patient in Lexington, came past and noticed him. There was something about the child, although so changed that he did not recognize him, that aroused the doctor's sympathies, and he ordered his man to drive up to the pavement and stop. "Well, my little man, what's the matter?" said he, leaning out of his carriage window. Henry looked up into his face, but did not reply. He knew Doctor R--instantly. How strong a hope sprang up in his heart--the hope of hearing from or being taken back to his mother! The kind-hearted physician needed no words to tell him that the little boy was suffering acutely. The flushed face, the starting eye, and the corrugation of the brow, were language which he understood as plainly as spoken words. "What ails you, my little boy!" he said in a voice of tender concern. The feelings of Henry softened under the warmth of true sympathy expressed in the countenance and tone of Doctor R--, and still looking him steadily in the face, essayed, but in vain, to answer the question. "Are you sick, my boy?" asked the doctor, with real and increasing concern for the poor child. "My feet hurt me so that I can hardly walk," replied Henry, whose tongue at last obeyed his efforts to speak. "And what ails your feet?" asked Doctor R--. "They've been frosted, sir." "Frosted, indeed! poor child! Well, what have you done for them?" "Nothing--only I greased them sometimes at night; and to-day my master made me stand in the snow." "The cruel wretch!" muttered Doctor R--between his teeth. "But can't you walk up as far as the drug store at the corner, and let me see your feet?" continued the doctor. "Yes, sir" replied the child, though he felt that to take another step was almost impossible. "You'll come right up, will you," urged the doctor. "Yes, sir," returned Henry, in a low voice.