“What hev gin ye the insurance ter kem a-nigh me!” Abner cried angrily, still reaching out with hands that were far enough from what they sought to clutch. The child, in her little chair at his feet, gazed up with awe. “Arter all ye done in camp, a-lyin’ an’ a-deludin’ me; an’ then slanderin’ an’ backbitin’ me ter the off’cers, an’ men; an’ every leetle caper I cut, gittin’ me laid by the heels fur it; an’ ev’ry time ye got in a scrape, puttin’ the blame on me. An’ at last—at last”—he cried, raising his voice and smiting his hands together as if overborne anew by the despair and scorn of it, “whenst we war flanked by the Feds ye deserted! An’ ye gin ’em the word how ter surround our battery! An’ cannon, an’ cannoneers, an’ horses, an’ caissons, an’ battery-wagon, all war captured! That war yer sheer o’ the fight.” He paused for a moment. Then he took a step forward, his stalwart, soldierly figure erect, his face flushed, his hand pointing toward the door. “G ’long!” he said roughly. “Go out. Haffen o’ this house is mine. An’ ye sha’n’t bide in it one minute. I hev hed enough of ye an’ yer ways. Go out!” “It’s a plumb harricane out’n doors, Ab,” Mrs. Guyther pleaded timidly. “Won’t ye—won’t ye jes’ let him bide till the storm’s over?” III. The lightning flashed; the thunder pealed. The blind man lifted his head, listening. He hesitated between his righteous scorn, his sense of injury, and the hospitality that was the instinct of his nature. He yielded at last, shamefacedly, as to a weakness. “Waal, waal,” he said, in an off-hand cavalier fashion, “keep Jerry dry; he’s mighty val’y’ble. Good men air sca’ce, Jerry; take keer o’ yerse’f!” He laughed sarcastically and resumed his chair. As he did so his booted knee struck against the little girl, still staring at him with eyes full of wonder. “What’s this?” he cried sharply, his nerves jarring yet with the excitement. He had not before noticed her. “I can’t see!” with a shrill rising inflection, as if the affliction were newly realized. A propitiatory smile broke upon her face. “Jes’ Rosamondy.” Her voice vibrated through the room—the high quavering treble of childhood that might have been shrill were it not so sweet. “Jerry’s leetle gal,” said aunt Jemima. “Shucks!” he exclaimed, contemptuously, and turned aside. “Set down, Rosamondy,” said aunt Jemima, assuming a grandmotherly authority. “Set down like a good leetle gal.” But Rosamond was not amenable to bidding and paid no heed. She had risen from her chair and stood by the side of the blind artillery-man. “Set down,” aunt Jemima admonished her again. “_He_ can’t see.” “Kin ye feel?” she said, suddenly laying her dimpled pink hand upon his. She gazed up at him, her eyes bright and soft, her lips parted, her cheek flushed. “Kin ye feel my hand?”