“It's a-goin' on fourteen mile from the mill, an' that ain't the worst of it. He won't come unless he gits the money, an' we ain't got no money to throw away on a doctor.”
She opened her hand and disclosed a crumpled, greasy note.
“That there five-dollar bill is the very last cent that we've got. An' when it's gone I don't know where we'll git any more, with him hurt, an' me with a little sucklin' baby.”
The woman began to sob.
“I'm jist ready to give up.”
The School-teacher's big gray-blue eyes filled with a kindly light.
“Don't cry,” he said, “perhaps I can do something for your husband's shoulder.”
He went over to the man. What the School-teacher did, precisely, these persons were never afterward able to describe. The event in their minds seemed clouded in mystery. A wonder had been accomplished in the road, in the sun, in the light before them, but they could not lay hold upon the sequence of the detail. The voice of the School-teacher presently reached them as from a distance.
“It's all right now,” he said.
The man doubled the arm and extended it. The woman came running up.