"No, I can never write again."
"Write?"
"I write stories for a living. It's all I can do when I have to stay at home with Mother and Benny. And now—God! what is there left for me to do?"
"You swore."
"I did not."
"Then maybe you prayed. Was it a prayer?"
"I can't pray. It's useless to pray. Those two hands brought in my bread and butter,—the bread and butter for us three. And now they are hopelessly crippled. What can I pray for?"
"Your bread and butter."
"Pshaw!" The girl laughed derisively, then broke off abruptly. "You don't understand," she said in lifeless tones.
"No," Peace agreed, "p'r'aps I don't. 'Twas my feet. How did you come to burn your hands?"