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Billy turned the bulky papers over and over as if to gather some hint of their meaning from fold and stiffness. “What is it, Mr. Smith?” he asked wonderingly. THE day was fine. Billy, not long released from his green shade, wondered if the world was ever so lovely before; the flowers so sweet, the birds so joyous. Could it be only a few short weeks since that gray Sunday? Billy’s confinement had quickened him, introduced him to himself; now he looked on life with wider eyes, with a more understanding heart. “Yes, Mosey, I jist want to go to my mornin’-glory garding to tell it good-night.” She rubbed her sleepy tear-stained eyes..

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When the train snorted into the station the two were there, Billy with his loaf under his arm, his can dangling. Most of the arrivals were townsfolk home from visits to the stricken city; but a few, evidently strangers, descended and stood by themselves. “Not till evening; but there’s the lawn.” “Fer the love o’ Mike, kid, how did you git here?” said Moses, rousing the small sleeper. “Gosh, but yer face needs warshin’.” He indicated a fair-haired child, a baby in size, though her face gave hint of more years than her slender body. She wore woman’s shoes, and one was torn; a draggled skirt pinned up in front and trailing behind; and a folded sheet drawn around her shoulders. Yet no incongruity of dress could disguise the refined beauty of her face, or of her uncovered hair..