[Illustration: George came out and locked the door]
She shook out Ivy's little blue dress, and began turning it around to
find the seam that was ripped. It was drawn together with queer
straggling stitches that only the most awkward of fingers could have
made. The white buttons on Bud's shirt-waist had been sewed on with
black thread, and a spot of blood told where somebody's thumb had felt
the sharp thrust of a needle. John Jay's trousers lay at the bottom of
the pile, with a little round, puckered patch of calico on each knee.
The tears came into Mammy's eyes as she saw the boy's poor attempt to
help. "I'se afeerd he's goin' to die," she muttered in alarm. "I
sut'n'ly is. Poah little fellow: he's mighty tryin' to a body's patience
sometimes, an' he's made a mess of this mendin', for suah, but I reckon
he means all right. He's not so onthinkin' an' onthankful aftah all."
She laid the spool and thimble on the window-sill, and folded her hands
to rest awhile. There was a tremulous smile on her careworn old face.
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