She handled tenderly the blood-red feet of the little boy, ever and anon looking up into his face, and noting with tender solicitude, the deep lines of suffering upon his forehead.
"There, that will do," said Sharp, who stood looking on, "and now run up stairs and get a better pair of stockings for Henry." "What do you want with a better pair of stockings ?" said Mrs.Sharp, a few moments after, bustling down into the kitchen.
"Why, I want them for Henry," replied her husband.
"Want them for Henry!" she exclaimed, in surprise.

"Where's the ones he had on ?" "There are some old rags in the shop that he had on; but they won't do now, with such feet as he's got." "What's the matter with his feet, I'd like to know," inquired Mrs.
Sharp.
"Why, they're frosted." "Let him put them in snow, then.

That'll cure 'em.

It's nothing but a little snow-burn, I suppose." "It's something a little worse than that," replied Sharp, "and he must have a comfortable pair of stockings.

And here, Anna, do you run around to Stogies, and tell him to send me three or four pairs of coarse shoes, about Henry's size." Anna, the little girl, disappeared with alacrity, and Mr.Sharp, turning to his wife, said: "Henry must have a good, warm pair of stockings, or we shall have him sick on our hands." "Well, I'll find him a pair," replied Mrs.Sharp, going off up stairs.