in the war."

Tucker laughed softly to himself as he watched the apple
revolving in the red heat on its bit of string. "Well, I'm not
sure that I shan't, Lucy," he said.

"Habit's mighty strong, you know, and when you come to think of
it there's some comfort in knowing that you'll never have to face
the worst again. A man doesn't duck his head at the future when
he's learned that, let be what will; it can't be so bad as the
thing he's gone through with and yet come out on top. It gives
him a pretty good feeling, after all, to know that he hasn't
funked the hardest knock that life could give. Well, my birds are
hungry, I reckon, and I'll hobble out and feed 'em while this
apple is roasting to the core."

Raising himself with difficulty, he got upon his crutches and
went to scatter his crumbs from the kitchen window.

By the first of March the thaw came, and the snow melted in a day
beneath the lavish spring sunshine. It was a week later that
Christopher, coming from the woods at midday, saw Tucker sitting
on his old bench by the damask rose-bush, in which the sap was
just beginning to swell. The sun shone full on the dead grass,
and the old soldier, with his chin resting in the crook of his
crutch, was gazing straight down upon the earth. The expression
of his large, kindly face was so radiant with enjoyment that
Christopher quickened his steps and slapped him affectionately
upon the shoulder.