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 there was anything else he could do, and had started for the door.  And then—­

“Casey Ryan,” called the Little Woman, with the teasing note in her voice.  “Casey Ryan, come back here and listen to me.  You are not going off like that to swear at yourself all night.  Sit down in that chair and listen to me!”

Casey sat down, swallowing hard.  All the Casey Ryan nonchalance was gone,—­never had been with him, in fact, while he faced that Little Woman.  Somehow she had struck him humble and dumb, from the very beginning.  I wish I knew how she did it; I’d like to try it sometime myself.

“Casey Ryan, it’s hard for a woman to own herself in the wrong, especially to a man,” she said, when he had begun to squirm and wonder what biting words she would say.  “I’ve always thought that I had as good nerve as any one.  I have, usually.  But that double-jack scared the life out of me after the first blow, and I thought I wouldn’t let on.  I couldn’t admit I was afraid.  I was terribly ashamed.  I knew you’d never miss, but I was scared, just the same.  And like a darn fool I pushed the drill away from me just as you struck.  It was coming down—­you couldn’t change it, man alive.  You’d aimed true at the drill, and—­the drill wasn’t just there at the moment.  Serves me right.  But it’s tough on you, old boy—­having to do the cooking for three of us while I’m laid up!”