His listener nodded assent, and he went on:

"Her child was left at Knapp-of-Reeds, but Saturday nights it
was brought over to stay the Sunday with her, usually by this boy
Nimbus, who was two or three years older than he. The first I remember
of his misfortune was one Saturday, when Nimbus brought him over
in a gunny-sack, on his back. It was not a great way, hardly half
a mile, but I remember thinking that it was a pretty smart tug for
the little black rascal. I was not more than a year or two older
than he, myself, and not nearly so strong.

"It seems that something had happened to the boy, I never knew
exactly what--seems to me it was a cold resulting from some exposure,
which settled in his legs, as they say, producing rheumatism or
something of that kind--so that he could not walk or hardly stand
up. The boy Nimbus had almost the sole charge of him during the
week, and of course he lacked for intelligent treatment. In fact,
I doubt if Desmit's overseer knew anything about it until it
was too late to do any good. He was a bright, cheerful child, and
Nimbus was the same dogged, quiet thing he is now. So it went on,
until his mother, Moniloe, found that he had lost all use of his
legs. They were curled up at one side, as you saw them, and while
his body has developed well they have grown but little in comparison.

"Moniloe made a great outcry over the child, to whom she was much
attached, and finally wrought upon my father and mother to buy
herself and her crippled boy. Colonel Desmit, on whom the burden
of his maintenance would fall, and who saw no method of making him
self-supporting, was willing to sell the mother on very moderate
terms if my father would take the child and guarantee his support.