"'I guess so,' the man says, thick. 'I guess if you're a good boy, he did.' Then he turned his head and looked straight at Robin. 'Don't you forget about his throat, will you?' he says. 'It—gets—sore—awful—easy....'
"He stopped talking, with a funny upsetting sound in his voice. It struck me then, like it has since, how frightful it was that neither him nor Chris thought of kissing each other—like neither one had brought the other up to know how. And yet Chris kissed all of us when we asked him—just like something away back in him knew how, without being brought up to know.
"He knew how to cry, though, without no bringing up, like folks do. As Robin come with him out of the room, Chris hid his face in her skirts, crying miserable. She set down by the window with him in her arms, and Insley went and stood side of them, not saying anything. I see them so, while Dr. Heron and I was busy for a minute in the bedroom. Then we come out and shut the door—ain't it strange, how one minute it takes so many people around the bed, and next minute, there's the one that was the one left in there all alone, able to take care of itself.
"Dr. Heron went away, and Robin still set there, holding Chris. All of a sudden he put up his face.
"'Robin,' he says, 'did—did my daddy leave me a letter?'
"'A letter?' she repeated.
"'To tell me what to do,' says the child. 'Like before. On the church steps.'
"'No—why, no, Chris,' she answers him. 'He didn't have to do that, you know.'
"His eyes was holding hers, like he wanted so much to understand.
"'Then how'll I know?' he asks, simple.