“The wood-cutter is right. It is balm,” said Uncle Isaac finally.,
Bob grabbed it and, before it could go out, nursed the flicker in his cupped hands, not realizing that it was burning his fingers cruelly. Carefully, yet swiftly, he carried the flame to the little pile of threads. As these caught, his heart grew light with thankfulness.,
“Sorry,” was the short response, “but orders are orders. Nothing doing.”.
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