"Oh! do not let it fall, Bell, for poor Fan is sick."—[P. 98.]
Soon she ran back and said: "O Bell! do come here! Come and look at the poor old man at the door. Why, I do not know how it is, but I can see but one arm. O dear! if he has but one, how sad it is! Come, look!"
Bell laid down her bits of wood, tho' her log hut was 'most done, and ran with Lou.
The out-side door had not been shut, for it was such a warm day. The soft west wind blew in, and the sun lay hot on the wide door-step.
"Come here, poor man," said Bell, "come to Lou and me; we want to talk to you."
He came with a slow, sad step. His face was thin and pale, his eyes were dim, and the long gray hair that fell on each side, made him look so sad! But it was a kind, good face, and Lou and Bell did not fear to call him to them.
"Have you been to the war?" said Lou.
"Yes, miss."
"Did you lose your arm in the war?"
"Yes, it was shot off; but, O miss! I do not mind my arm. It is my boy, my dear Will, I want back, my own dear son. Oh! why did I let him go?"