"Sh, sh, honey," said Jim, with a man's inadequacy in such a moment. "'Tain't yo' fault; you nevah wished huh any ha'm."
"No; but I said it, I said it!"
"Po' Ike," said Jim absently; "po' fellah!"
"Won't you go thaih," she asked, "an' see what you kin do fu' him?"
"He don't speak to me."
"You mus' speak to him; you got to do it, Jim; you got to."
"What kin I say? 'Tildy's daid."
She reached up and put her arms around her husband's brawny neck. "Go bring that po' little lamb hyeah," she said. "I kin save it, an' 'ten' to two. It'll be a sort of consolation fu' him to keep his chile."
"Kin you do that, Marthy?" he said. "Kin you do that?"
"I know I kin." A great load seemed to lift itself from Jim's heart as he burst out of the house. He opened Ike's door without knocking. The man sat by the empty fireplace with his head bowed over the ashes.