"He's father's little soldier," said Robert huskily; "he ain't a-goin' to cry about a little thing like that."
The little soldier sat on the doorstep, striving to get his sobs under military discipline and contemplating his tiny finger ruefully.
An old woman came through the room with a white cloth in her hand.
"Gramma'll tie it up for him," she said soothingly, sitting down on the step, and tearing off a bandage wide enough for a broken limb.
The patient heaved a deep sigh of content as the unwieldiness of the wounded member increased, and held his fat little fingers wide apart to accommodate the superfluity of rag.
"There, now," said the old woman, rubbing his soft little gingham back fondly; "gramma'll go and show him the turkeys."
The two disappeared around the corner of the house, and the man and woman came drearily back to their conference.
"If you go, Nancy," said Robert, essaying a wan smile, "I hope you'll be careful what you say to 'em; you must remember they don't think they're to blame."
"I won't promise anything at all," asserted Nancy, hitching her angular shoulders; "more'n likely, I'll tell 'em just what I think. I ain't afraid of hurtin' their feelin's, for they hain't got any. I think money's a good deal like your skin; it keeps you from feelin' things that make you smart dreadfully when you get it knocked off."
Robert smiled feebly, and rubbed his moist, yielding hand across his wife's misshapen knuckles.