“Oh, Scip, you must remember that word,” Hazel said impatiently. “Look down and study the letters again,” and she pointed to the HORSE plainly printed on the copy in her lap.
As the boy bent over she saw that his hair was matted with blood, and that blood was oozing from a gash in his forehead.
“Scip,” she cried, “what has happened?”
“Don’t you mind Sister,” he answered. “I can read the letters,” he went on—“HORSE”—studying it, “but I can’t rightly remember what they done spell.”
“Scip, how did your head get that way?”
“It ain’t nothing.”
“I’m going right to the house to get some water to wash the blood off for you.”
“Don’t you do that, Hazel,” he said earnestly. “It ain’t much, and you’d mind the blood. My father’s been drunk again,” he added sullenly.
“Oh, Scip, dear, I’m so sorry,” Hazel cried, “I’m so sorry,” and longing to give such comfort as she could she put her arms about his neck and kissed him.
The tears came to the boy’s eyes. His child’s face, grown dull and expressionless from neglect and cruelty, quivered in every muscle. Hazel moved back shyly, startled at her own impulsiveness. He looked down at the copy in her lap, at her slender brown hands, and said gently, “Don’t you mind, Hazel. I don’t mind no more.”