her face was forgotten the memory of that voice would keep tugging at his heartstrings.
Suppose one wakens from a dream of music. The music is gone; only the happiness remains, together with the bitter sense of loss. Andy sat on the anvil with closed eyes and put his hand over his heart, where the pain was.
He stood up presently, closed the shop, and went home. Afterward his uncle came in a fierce humor, slamming the door. He found Andy sitting in front of the table staring down at his hands.
"Buck Heath has been talkin' about you," said Jasper.
Andy raised his head. "Look at 'em!" he said as he spread out his hands.
"Buck Heath has been sayin' things that would of got him shot when I was your age," said Jasper more pointedly than he had ever spoken before. And he sickened when he saw that Andy refused to hear.
"Look at 'em," repeated Andy. "I been scrubbin' 'em with sand soap for half an hour, and the oil and the iron dust won't come out."
Uncle Jasper, who had a quiet voice and gentle manners, now stood rigid. "I wisht to God that some iron dust would work its way into your soul," he said. He let his voice go big. "Oh, Lord, how I wisht you had some iron dust in your heart!"
"What are you talking about?"
"Nothin' you could understand; you need a mother to explain things to you."
The other got up, white about the mouth. "I think I do," said Andy. "I'm sick inside."
"Where's supper?" demanded Jasper.
Andy sat down again, and began to consider his hands
