ippling you permanently.

Casey doesn't like to talk about it, but once he growled that he did about
every damn-fool thing he could with a double-jack, except brain her. The
Little Woman gave one small scream and went over backward in a faint, and
Casey was just about ready to go off and shoot himself.

He took her up in his arms and carried her down to the cabin before she
came to. And when she did come to her senses, Babe immediately made
matters worse. She was whimpering beside her mother, and when she saw that
mamma had waked up, she shrilled consolingly: "It's going to be all well
in a minute. Casey Ryan kissed it des like _that!_ So now it'll get all
well!"

If the Little Woman had wanted to tell Casey what she thought of him, she
couldn't just then, for Casey was halfway to his own camp by the time she
glanced around the room, looking for him.

Common humanity drove him back, of course. He couldn't let a woman and a
child starve to death just because he was a damned idiot and had
half-killed the woman. But if there had been another person within calling
distance, the Little Woman would probably never have seen Casey Ryan
again.

Necessity has a bland way of ignoring such things as conventions and the
human emotions. Casey cooked supper for Babe and the Little Woman, and
washed the dishes, and wrung out cloths from hot vinegar and salt so that
the Little Woman could bathe her knee--she had to do it left-handed, at
that--and unbuttoned Babe's clothes and helped her on with her pyjamas and
let her kneel on his lap while she said her prayers. Because, as Babe
painstakingly explained, she always kneeled on a lap so ants couldn't run
over her toes and tickle her and make her laugh, which would make God
think she was a bad, naughty girl.

Can you picture Casey Ryan rocking that child to sleep? I can't--yes, I
can too, and there's something in the picture that holds back the laugh
you think will come.

Before she gave her final wriggle and cheeped her last little cheep, Babe
had to be carried over and held down where she could kiss mamma good
night. Casey got rather white around the mouth, then. But he didn't say a
word. Indeed, he had said mighty little since that fourth blow of the
double-jack; just enough to get along intelligently, with what he had to
do. He hadn't even told the Little Woman he was sorry.

So Babe was asleep and tucked in her bed, and Casey turned down the light
and asked perfunctorily if th