had told him, in the office, that he might talk to him to-day--a little
while--and his face glowed with the joy of it.

The boy hailed him, from far down the ward, his weak voice filled with
gladness, and Achilles hurried. He dropped into the chair beside him
and took the thin hand in his strong, dark one, holding it while he
talked--gentle words, full of the morning and of going home. The boy's
eyes brightened, watching his father's face.

"Pain--gone," he said, "--all gone." His hand lifted to his forehead.

Achilles bent forward and touched it lightly, brushing the hair across
it. "You are well now," he said gratefully.

The boy smiled, his dark eyes fixed absently on his thoughts. "They--bad
men!" he said abruptly.

Achilles leaned forward with anxious look, but the boy's eyes were
clear. "They run down," he said quietly, "--and go fast--like wind--I
try--I run. They shout and hit cart--and swear--and I lie on ground."
His lifted eyes seemed to be looking up at some great object passing
close above him... and a look of dread held them. He drew a quick
breath. "They bad men--" he said. "Little girl cry!"

Achilles bent forward, holding his breath. "What was it--Alcie?"

The boy's eyes turned toward him trustingly. "They hurt bad," he said.
"I try--I run--"

"And the little girl--?" suggested Achilles gently. His voice would not