I could do it, I feel I could, if only I had the opportunity for study,
and the health to improve it; this isn't conceit,--_she_ knew that,--but
a cool, calm gauging of the sort of ability that I know I have.
We--she and I--used to plan great things that I was to do when I went to
college; when I finished college, and went into the world, I was to
become a famous lawyer,--"good, wise, and great, my son Felix," she used
to say, with a look in her eyes that always stirred me to more and
better efforts. She helped me in every way, and it was a delight to
learn, in spite of the drawback of ill-health. But now all is changed:
she is gone, there is no prospect whatever of my getting to college, and
somehow, lately, this miserable old back of mine seems to be getting to
be a wetter and wetter blanket than ever on my ambition. Ah, if I but
had a physique like Phil's! She used to say, "Remember always, Felix,
that your fine mind is a gift from God, a responsibility given you by
Him." Oh, why, then, did He not give me a body to match? All things are
possible to Him; He could have done so.
When I was a little fellow I used to pray most earnestly that God would
let me outgrow this lameness and be strong like other boys; but we had a
talk about it,--just before she went away,--and ever since then I have
asked only to be patient and contented.
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