And then suddenly there came to Stevie the remembrance of a picture
that hung in his mamma's room. It was a print of a famous painting,
and it represented a Boy of twelve, with a bright, eager, beautiful
face, standing among grave, dark-browed, white-robed men. Mamma and
Stevie had often talked about the Boy there pictured, and Stevie knew
that He had not loved His own way, for He "pleased not Himself." He
wouldn't have quarreled with Dave! He had been a real Boy, too; He
knew just what other boys had to go through, all their trials and
temptations, and mamma had said over and over that she knew He just
loved to help those other boys to be good and unselfish and patient.
Then He must know all about poor Dave's having to lie helpless all the
time. A wistful look came into Stevie's eyes. Oh, if Jesus were only
on earth now, he thought, how quickly they would all take Dave to Him
to be healed! Or perhaps He would come to the sick boy, as He did to
some of those others in the Bible. Stevie pictured to himself the
tall, gracious figure, clad in long, trailing robes, the holy face, the
tender eyes.
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