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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/5874.txt b/5874.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1560e42 --- /dev/null +++ b/5874.txt @@ -0,0 +1,10733 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Dawn, by Eleanor H. Porter + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Dawn + +Author: Eleanor H. Porter + +Posting Date: October 26, 2012 [EBook #5874] +Release Date: June, 2004 +First Posted: September 15, 2002 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DAWN *** + + + + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Charles Franks and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team + + + + + + + + + + + +[Illustration: "I MUST GO, NOW, I--MUST--GO!"] + +DAWN + +BY + +ELEANOR H. PORTER + +With Illustrations by Lucius Wolcott Hitchcock + +BOSTON AND NEW YORK + +1919 + + + + +To My Friend + +MRS. JAMES D. PARKER + + + + +CONTENTS + +I. THE GREAT TERROR + +II. DAD + +III. FOR JERRY AND NED + +IV. SCHOOL + +V. WAITING + +VI. LIGHTS OUT + +VII. SUSAN TO THE RESCUE + +VIII. AUNT NETTIE MEETS HER MATCH + +IX. SUSAN SPEAKS HER MIND + +X. AND NETTIE COLEBROOK SPEAKS HERS + +XI. NOT PATS BUT SCRATCHES + +XII. CALLERS FOR "KEITHIE" + +XIII. FREE VERSE--A LA SUSAN + +XIV. A SURPRISE ALL AROUND + +XV. AGAIN SUSAN TAKES A HAND + +XVI. THE WORRY OF IT + +XVII. DANIEL BURTON TAKES THE PLUNGE + +XVIII. "MISS STEWART" + +XIX. A MATTER OF LETTERS + +XX. WITH CHIN UP + +XXI. THE LION + +XXII. HOW COULD YOU, MAZIE? + +XXIII. JOHN MCGUIRE + +XXIV. AS SUSAN SAW IT + +XXV. KEITH TO THE RESCUE + +XXVI. MAZIE AGAIN + +XXVII. FOR THE SAKE OF JOHN + +XXVIII. THE WAY + +XXIX. DOROTHY TRIES HER HAND + +XXX. DANIEL BURTON'S "JOB" + +XXXI. WHAT SUSAN DID NOT SEE + +XXXII. THE KEY + +XXXIII. AND ALL ON ACCOUNT OF SUSAN + + + + +ILLUSTRATIONS + +"I must go, now. I--must--go!" + +Susan Betts talking with Mrs. McGuire over the back-yard fence + +"Want you? I always want you!" + +"You've helped more--than you'll ever know" + +He gave her almost no chance to say anything herself + +Keith's arm shot out and his hand fell, covering hers + +It was well that the Japanese screen on the front piazza was down + + + + +CHAPTER I + +THE GREAT TERROR + + +It was on his fourteenth birthday that Keith Burton discovered the +Great Terror, though he did not know it by that name until some days +afterward. He knew only, to his surprise and distress, that the +"Treasure Island," given to him by his father for a birthday present, +was printed in type so blurred and poor that he could scarcely read +it. + +He said nothing, of course. In fact he shut the book very hastily, +with a quick, sidewise look, lest his father should see and notice the +imperfection of his gift. + +Poor father! He would feel so bad after he had taken all that pains +and spent all that money--and for something not absolutely necessary, +too! And then to get cheated like that. For, of course, he had been +cheated--such horrid print that nobody could read. + +But it was only a day or two later that Keith found some more horrid +print. This time it was in his father's weekly journal that came every +Saturday morning. He found it again that night in a magazine, and yet +again the next day in the Sunday newspaper. + +Then, before he had evolved a satisfactory explanation in his own mind +of this phenomenon, he heard Susan Betts talking with Mrs. McGuire +over the back-yard fence. + +Susan Betts began the conversation. But that was nothing strange: +Susan Betts always began the conversation. + +"Have you heard about poor old Harrington?" she demanded in what Keith +called her "excitingest" voice. Then, as was always the case when she +spoke in that voice, she plunged on without waiting for a reply, as if +fearful lest her bit of news fall from the other pair of lips first. +"Well, he's blind--stone blind. He couldn't see a dollar bill--not if +you shook it right before his eyes." + +"Sho! you don't say!" Mrs. McGuire dropped the wet sheet back into the +basket and came to the fence on her side concernedly. "Now, ain't that +too bad?" + +"Yes, ain't it? An' he so kind, an' now so blind! It jest makes me +sick." Susan whipped open the twisted folds of a wet towel. Susan +seldom stopped her work to talk. "But I saw it comin' long ago. An' he +did, too, poor man!" + +Mrs. McGuire lifted a bony hand to her face and tucked a flying wisp +of hair behind her right ear. + +"Then if he saw it comin', why couldn't he do somethin' to stop it?" +she demanded. + +[Illustration: SUSAN BETTS TALKING WITH MRS. MCGUIRE OVER THE BACKYARD +FENCE] + +"I don't know. But he couldn't. Dr. Chandler said he couldn't. An' +they had a man up from Boston--one of them eye socialists what doesn't +doctor anythin' but eyes--an' he said he couldn't." + +Keith, on his knees before the beet-bed adjoining the clothes-yard, +sat back on his heels and eyed the two women with frowning interest. + +He knew old Mr. Harrington. So did all the boys. Never was there a +kite or a gun or a jack-knife so far gone that Uncle Joe Harrington +could not "fix it" somehow. And he was always so jolly about it, and +so glad to do it. But it took eyes to do such things, and if now he +was going to be blind-- + +"An' you say it's been comin' on gradual?" questioned Mrs. McGuire. +"Why, I hadn't heard-" + +"No, there hain't no one heard," interrupted Susan. "He didn't say +nothin' ter nobody, hardly, only me, I guess, an' I suspicioned it, or +he wouldn't 'a' said it to me, probably. Ye see, I found out he wa'n't +readin' 'em--the papers Mr. Burton has me take up ter him every week. +An' he owned up, when I took him ter task for it, that he couldn't +read 'em. They was gettin' all blurred." + +"Blurred?" It was a startled little cry from the boy down by the +beet-bed; but neither Susan nor Mrs. McGuire heard--perhaps because at +almost the same moment Mrs. McGuire had excitedly asked the same +question. + +"Blurred?" she cried. + +"Yes; all run tergether like--the printin', ye know--so he couldn't +tell one letter from t'other. 'T wa'n't only a little at first. Why, +he thought 't was jest somethin' the matter with the printin' itself; +an'--" + +"And WASN'T it the printing at ALL?" + +The boy was on his feet now. His face was a little white and +strained-looking, as he asked the question. + +"Why, no, dearie. Didn't you hear Susan tell Mis' McGuire jest now? 'T +was his EYES, an' he didn't know it. He was gettin' blind, an' that +was jest the beginnin'." + +Susan's capable hands picked up another wet towel and snapped it open +by way of emphasis. + +"The b-beginning?" stammered the boy. "But--but ALL beginnings +don't--don't end like that, do they?" + +Susan Betts laughed indulgently and jammed the clothespin a little +deeper on to the towel. + +"Bless the child! Won't ye hear that, now?" she laughed with a shrug. +"An' how should I know? I guess if Susan Betts could tell the end of +all the beginnin's as soon as they're begun, she wouldn't be hangin' +out your daddy's washin', my boy. She'd be sittin' on a red velvet +sofa with a gold cupola over her head a-chargin' five dollars apiece +for tellin' yer fortune. Yes, sir, she would!" + +"But--but about Uncle Joe," persisted the boy. "Can't he really see--at +all, Susan?" + +"There, there, child, don't think anything more about it. Indeed, +forsooth, I'm tellin' the truth, but I s'pose I hadn't oughter told it +before you. Still, you'd 'a' found it out quick enough--an' you with +your tops an' balls always runnin' up there. An' that's what the poor +soul seemed to feel the worst about," she went on, addressing Mrs. +McGuire, who was still leaning on the division fence. + +"'If only I could see enough ter help the boys!' he moaned over an' +over again. It made me feel awful bad. I was that upset I jest +couldn't sleep that night, an' I had ter get up an' write. But it made +a real pretty poem. My fuse always works better in the night, anyhow. +'The wail of the toys'--that's what I called it--had the toys tell the +story, ye know, all the kites an' jack-knives an' balls an' bats that +he's fixed for the boys all these years, an' how bad they felt because +he couldn't do it any more. Like this, ye know: + + 'Oh, woe is me, said the baseball bat, + Oh, woe is me, said the kite.' + +'T was real pretty, if I do say it, an' touchy, too." + +"For mercy's sake, Susan Betts, if you ain't the greatest!" ejaculated +Mrs. McGuire, with disapproving admiration. "If you was dyin' I +believe you'd stop to write a poem for yer gravestone!" + +Susan Betts chuckled wickedly, but her voice was gravity itself. + +"Oh, I wouldn't have ter do that, Mis' McGuire. I've got that done +already." + +"Susan Betts, you haven't!" gasped the scandalized woman on the other +side of the fence. + +"Haven't I? Listen," challenged Susan Betts, striking an attitude. Her +face was abnormally grave, though her eyes were merry. + + "Here lieth a woman whose name was Betts, + An' I s'pose she'll deserve whatever she gets; + But if she hadn't been Betts she might 'a' been Better, + She might even been Best if her name would 'a' let her." + +"Susan!" gasped Mrs. McGuire once more; but Susan only chuckled again +wickedly, and fell to work on her basket of clothes in good earnest. + +A moment later she was holding up with stern disapproval two socks +with gaping heels. + +"Keith Burton, here's them scandalous socks again! Now, do you go tell +your father that I won't touch 'em. I won't mend 'em another once. He +must get you a new pair--two new pairs, right away. Do you hear?" + +But Keith did not hear. Keith was not there to hear. Still with that +strained, white look on his face he had hurried out of the yard and +through the gate. + +Mrs. McGuire, however, did hear. + +"My stars, Susan Betts, it's lucky your bark is worse than your bite!" +she exclaimed. "Mend 'em, indeed! They won't be dry before you've got +your darnin' egg in 'em." + +Susan laughed ruefully. Then she sighed:--at arms' length she was +holding up another pair of yawning socks. + +"I know it. And look at them, too," she snapped, in growing wrath. +"But what's a body goin' to do? The boy'd go half-naked before his +father would sense it, with his nose in that paint-box. Much as ever +as he's got sense enough ter put on his own clothes--and he WOULDN'T +know WHEN ter put on CLEAN ones, if I didn't spread 'em out for him!" + +"I know it. Too bad, too bad," murmured Mrs. McGuire, with a virtuous +shake of her head. "An' he with his fine bringin'-up, an' now to be so +shiftless an' good-for-nothin', an'--" + +But Susan Betts was interrupting, her eyes flashing. + +"If you please, I'll thank you to say no more like that about my +master," she said with dignity. "He's neither shiftless, nor +good-for-nothin'. His character is unbleachable! He's an artist an' a +scholar an' a gentleman, an' a very superlative man. It's because he +knows so much that--that he jest hain't got room for common things like +clothes an' holes in socks." + +"Stuff an' nonsense!" retorted Mrs. McGuire nettled in her turn. "I +guess I've known Dan'l Burton as long as you have; an' as for his +bein' your master--he can't call his soul his own when you're around, +an' you know it." + +But Susan, with a disdainful sniff, picked up her now empty +clothes-basket and marched into the house. + +Down the road Keith had reached the turn and was climbing the hill +that led to old Mr. Harrington's shabby cottage. + +The boy's eyes were fixed straight ahead. A squirrel whisked his tail +alluringly from the bushes at the left, and a robin twittered from a +tree branch on the right. But the boy neither saw nor heard--and when +before had Keith Burton failed to respond to a furred or feathered +challenge like that? + +To-day there was an air of dogged determination about even the way he +set one foot before the other. He had the air of one who sees his goal +ahead and cannot reach it soon enough. Yet when Keith arrived at the +sagging, open gate before the Harrington cottage, he stopped short as +if the gate were closed; and his next steps were slow and hesitant. +Walking on the grass at the edge of the path he made no sound as he +approached the stoop, on which sat an old man. + +At the steps, as at the gate, Keith stopped and waited, his gaze on +the motionless figure in the rocking-chair. The old man sat with hands +folded on his cane-top, his eyes apparently looking straight ahead. + +Slowly the boy lifted his right arm and waved it soundlessly. He +lifted his left--but there was no waving flourish. Instead it fell +impotently almost before it was lifted. On the stoop the old man still +sat motionless, his eyes still gazing straight ahead. + +Again the boy hesitated; then, with an elaborately careless air, he +shuffled his feet on the gravel walk and called cheerfully: + +"Hullo, Uncle Joe." + +"Hullo! Oh, hullo! It's Keith Burton, ain't it?" + +The old head turned with the vague indecision of the newly blind, and +a trembling hand thrust itself aimlessly forward. "It IS Keith--ain't +it?" + +"Oh, yes, sir, I'm Keith." + +The boy, with a quick look about him, awkwardly shook the fluttering +fingers--Keith was not in the habit of shaking hands with people, +least of all with Uncle Joe Harrington. He sat down then on the step +at the old man's feet. + +"What did ye bring ter-day, my boy?" asked the man eagerly; then with +a quick change of manner, he sighed, "but I'm afraid I can't fix it, +anyhow." + +"Oh, no, sir, you don't have to. I didn't bring anything to be mended +to-day." Unconsciously Keith had raised his voice. He was speaking +loudly, and very politely. + +The old man fell back in his chair. He looked relieved, yet +disappointed. + +"Oh, well, that's all right, then. I'm glad. That is, of course, if I +could have fixed it for you--His sentence remained unfinished. A +profound gloom settled over his countenance. + +"But I didn't bring anything for you to fix," reiterated the boy, in a +yet louder tone. + +"There, there, my boy, you don't have to shout." The old man shifted +uneasily hi his seat. "I ain't deaf. I'm only--I suppose you know, +Keith, what's come to me in my old age." + +"Yes, sir, I--I do." The boy hitched a little nearer to the two +ill-shod feet on the floor near him. "And--and I wanted to ask you. Yours +hurt a lot, didn't they?--I mean, your eyes; they--they ached, didn't +they, before they--they got--blind?" He spoke eagerly, almost +hopefully. + +The old man shook his head. + +"No, not much. I s'pose I ought to be thankful I was spared that." + +The boy wet his dry lips and swallowed. + +"But, Uncle Joe, 'most always, I guess, when--when folks are going to +be blind, they--they DO ache, don't they?" + +Again the old man stirred restlessly. + +"I don't know. I only know about--myself." + +"But--well, anyhow, it never comes till you're old--real old, does +it?" Keith's voice vibrated with confidence this time. + +"Old? I ain't so very old. I'm only seventy-five," bridled Harrington +resentfully. "Besides anyhow, the doctor said age didn't have nothin' +ter do with this kind of blindness. It comes ter young folks, real +young folks, sometimes." + +"Oh-h!" The boy wet his lips and swallowed again a bit convulsively. +With eyes fearful and questioning he searched the old man's face. +Twice he opened his mouth as if to speak; but each time he closed it +again with the words left unsaid. Then, with a breathless rush, very +much like desperation, he burst out: + +"But it's always an awful long time comin', isn't it? Blindness is. +It's years and years before it really gets here, isn't it?" + +"Hm-m; well, I can't say. I can only speak for myself, Keith." + +"Yes, sir, I know, sir; and that's what I wanted to ask--about you," +plunged on Keith feverishly. "When did you notice it first, and what +was it?" + +The old man drew a long sigh. + +"Why, I don't know as I can tell, exactly. 'T was quite a spell comin' +on--I know that; and't wasn't much of anything at first. 'T was just +that I couldn't see ter read clear an' distinct. It was all sort of +blurred." + +"Kind of run together?" Just above his breath Keith asked the +question. + +"Yes, that's it exactly. An' I thought somethin' ailed my glasses, an' +so I got some new ones. An' I thought at first maybe it helped. But it +didn't. Then it got so that't wa'n't only the printin' ter books an' +papers that was blurred, but ev'rything a little ways off was in a +fog, like, an' I couldn't see anything real clear an' distinct." + +"Oh, but things--other things--don't look a mite foggy to me," cried +the boy. + +"'Course they don't! Why should they? They didn't to me--once," +retorted the man impatiently. "But now--" Again he left a sentence +unfinished. + +"But how soon did--did you get--all blind, after that?" stammered the +boy, breaking the long, uncomfortable silence that had followed the +old man's unfinished sentence. + +"Oh, five or six months--maybe more. I don't know exactly. I know it +came, that's all. I guess if 't was you it wouldn't make no difference +HOW it came, if it came, boy." "N-no, of course not," chattered Keith, +springing suddenly to his feet. "But I guess it isn't coming to me--of +course't isn't coming to me! Well, good-bye, Uncle Joe, I got to go +now. Good-bye!" + +He spoke fearlessly, blithely, and his chin was at a confident tilt. +He even whistled as he walked down the hill. But in his heart--in his +heart Keith knew that beside him that very minute stalked that +shadowy, intangible creature that had dogged his footsteps ever since +his fourteenth birthday-gift from his father; and he knew it now by +name--The Great Terror. + + + + +CHAPTER II + +DAD + + +Keith's chin was still high and his gaze still straight ahead when he +reached the foot of Harrington Hill. Perhaps that explained why he did +not see the two young misses on the fence by the side of the road +until a derisively gleeful shout called his attention to their +presence. + +"Well, Keith Burton, I should like to know if you're blind!" +challenged a merry voice. + +The boy turned with a start so violent that the girls giggled again +gleefully. "Dear, dear, did we scare him? We're so sorry!" + +The boy flushed painfully. Keith did not like girls--that is, he SAID +he did not like them. They made him conscious of his hands and feet, +and stiffened his tongue so that it would not obey his will. The +prettier the girls were, the more acute was his discomfiture. +Particularly, therefore, did he dislike these two girls--they were the +prettiest of the lot. They were Mazie Sanborn and her friend Dorothy +Parkman. + +Mazie was the daughter of the town's richest manufacturer, and Dorothy +was her cousin from Chicago, who made such long visits to her Eastern +relatives that it seemed sometimes almost as if she were as much of a +Hinsdale girl as was Mazie herself. + +To-day Mazie's blue eyes and Dorothy's brown ones were full of +mischief. + +"Well, why don't you say something? Why don't you apologize?" demanded +Mazie. + +'"Pol--pologize? What for?" In his embarrassed misery Keith resorted +to bravado in voice and manner. + +"Why, for passing us by in that impertinent fashion," returned Mazie +loftily. "Do you think that is the way ladies should be treated?" +(Mazie was thirteen and Dorothy fourteen.) "The idea!" + +For a minute Keith stared helplessly, shifting from one foot to the +other. Then, with an inarticulate grunt, he turned away. + +But Mazie was not to be so easily thwarted. With a mere flit of her +hand she tossed aside a score of years, and became instantly nothing +more than a wheedling little girl coaxing a playmate. + +"Aw, Keithie, don't get mad! I was only fooling. Say, tell me, HAVE +you been up to Uncle Joe Harrington's?" + +Because Mazie had caught his arm and now held it tightly, the boy +perforce came to a stop. + +"Well, what if I have?" he resorted to bravado again. + +"And is he blind, honestly?" Mazie's voice became hushed and +awestruck. + +"Uh-huh." The boy nodded his head with elaborate unconcern, but he +shifted his feet uneasily. + +"And he can't see a thing--not a thing?" breathed Mazie. + +"'Course he can't, if he's blind!" Keith showed irritation now, and +pulled not too gently at the arm still held in Mazie's firm little +fingers. + +"Blind! Ugghh!" interposed Miss Dorothy, shuddering visibly. "Oh, how +can you bear to look at him, Keith Burton? I couldn't!" + +A sudden wave of red surged over the boy's face. The next instant it +had receded, leaving only a white, strained terror. + +"Well, he ain't to blame for it, if he is blind, is he?" chattered the +boy, a bit incoherently. "If you're blind you're blind, and you can't +help yourself." And with a jerk he freed himself from Mazie's grasp +and hurried down the road toward home. + +But when he reached the bend of the road he turned and looked back. +The two girls had returned to their perch on the fence, and were +deeply absorbed in something one of them held in her hand. + +"And she said she couldn't bear--to look at 'em--if they were blind," +he whispered. Then, wheeling about, he ran down the road as fast as he +could. Nor did he stop till he had entered his own gate. + +"Well, Keith Burton, I should like to know where you've been," cried +the irate voice of Susan Betts from the doorway. + +"Oh, just walking. Why?" + +"Because I've been huntin' and huntin' for you. + + But, oh, dear me, + You're worse'n a flea, + So what's the use of talkin'? + You always say, + As you did to-day, + I've just been out a-walkin'!" + +"But what did you want me for?" + +"I didn't want you. Your pa wanted you. But, then, for that matter, +he's always wantin' you. Any time, if you look at him real good an' +hard enough to get his attention, he'll stare a minute, an' then say: +'Where's Keith?' An' when he gets to the other shore, I suppose he'll +do it all the more." + +"Oh, no, he won't--not if it's talking poetry. Father never talks +poetry. What makes you talk it so much, Susan? Nobody else does." + +Susan laughed good-humoredly. + +"Lan' sakes, child, I don't know, only I jest can't help it. Why, +everything inside of me jest swings along to a regular tune--kind of +keeps time, like. It's always been so. Why, Keithie, boy, it's been my +joy--There, you see--jest like that! I didn't know that was comin'. It +jest--jest came. That's all. I can make a rhyme 'most any time. Oh, of +course, most generally, when I write real poems, I have to sit down +with a pencil an' paper, an' write 'em out. It's only the spontaneous +combustion kind that comes all in a minute, without predisposed +thinkin'. Now, run along to your pa, child. He wants you. He's been +frettin' the last hour for you, jest because he didn't know exactly +where you was. Goodness me! I only hope I'll never have to live with +him if anything happens to you." + +The boy had crossed the room; but with his hand on the door knob he +turned sharply. + +"W-what do you mean by that?" + +Susan Betts gave a despairing gesture. + +"Lan' sakes, child, how you do hold a body up! I meant what I said--that +I didn't want the job of livin' with your pa if anything happened +to you. You know as well as I do that he thinks you're the very axle +for the earth to whirl 'round on. But, there, I don't know as I +wonder--jest you left, so!" + +The boy abandoned his position at the door, and came close to Susan +Betts's side. + +"That's what I've always wanted to know. Other boys have brothers and +sisters and--a mother. But I can't ever remember anybody only dad. +Wasn't there ever any one else?" + +Susan Betts drew a long sigh. + +"There were two brothers, but they died before you was born. Then +there was--your mother." + +"But I never--knew her?" + +"No, child. When they opened the door of Heaven to let you out she +slipped in, poor lamb. An' then you was all your father had left. So +of course he dotes on you. Goodness me, there ain't no end to the fine +things he's goin' ter have you be when you grow up." + +"Yes, I know." The boy caught his breath convulsively and turned away. +"I guess I'll go--to dad." + +At the end of the hall upstairs was the studio. Dad would probably be +there. Keith knew that. Dad was always there, when he wasn't sleeping +or eating, or out tramping through the woods. He would be sitting +before the easel now "puttering" over a picture, as Susan called it. +Susan said he was a very "insufficient, uncapacious" man--but that was +when she was angry or tried with him. She never let any one else say +such things about him. + +Still, dad WAS very different from other dads. Keith had to +acknowledge that--to himself. Other boys' dads had offices and stores +and shops and factories where they worked, or else they were doctors +or ministers; and there was always money to get things with--things +that boys needed; shoes and stockings and new clothes, and candy and +baseball bats and kites and jack-knives. + +Dad didn't have anything but a studio, and there never seemed to be +much money. What there was, was an "annual," Susan said, whatever that +was. Anyway, whatever it was, it was too small, and not nearly large +enough to cover expenses. Susan had an awful time to get enough to buy +their food with sometimes. She was always telling dad that she'd GOT +to have a little to buy eggs or butter or meat with. + +And there were her wages--dad was always behind on those. And when the +bills came in at the first of the month, it was always awful then: dad +worried and frowning and unhappy and apologetic and explaining; Susan +cross and half-crying. Strange men, not overpleasant-looking, ringing +the doorbell peremptorily. And never a place at all where a boy might +feel comfortable to stay. Dad was always talking then, especially, how +he was sure he was going to sell THIS picture. But he never sold it. +At least, Keith never knew him to. And after a while he would begin a +new picture, and be SURE he was going to sell THAT. + +But not only was dad different from other boys' dads, but the house +was different. First it was very old, and full of very old furniture +and dishes. Then blinds and windows and locks and doors were always +getting out of order; and they were apt to remain so, for there was +never any money to fix things with. There was also a mortgage on the +house. That is, Susan said there was; and by the way she said it, it +would seem to be something not at all attractive or desirable. Just +what a mortgage was, Keith did not exactly understand; but, for that +matter, quite probably Susan herself did not. Susan always liked to +use big words, and some of them she did not always know the meaning +of, dad said. + +To-day, in the hallway, Keith stood a hesitant minute before his +father's door. Then slowly he pushed it open. + +"Did you want me, dad?" he asked. + +The man at the easel sprang to his feet. He was a tall, slender man, +with finely cut features and a pointed, blond beard. Susan had once +described him as "an awfully nice man to take care of, but not worth a +cent when it comes to takin' care of you." Yet there was every +evidence of loving protection in the arm he threw around his boy just +now. + +"Want you? I always want you!" he cried affectionately. "Look! Do you +remember that moss we brought home yesterday? Well, I've got its twin +now." Triumphantly he pointed to the lower left-hand corner of the +picture on the easel, where was a carefully blended mass of greens and +browns. + +"Oh, yes, why, so't is." (Keith had long since learned to see in his +father's pictures what his father saw.) "Say, dad, I wish't you'd tell +me about--my little brothers. Won't you, please?" + +"And, Keith, look--do you recognize that little path? It's the one we +saw yesterday. I'm going to call this picture 'The Woodland Path'--and +I think it's going to be about the very best thing I ever did." + +Keith was not surprised that his question had been turned aside: +questions that his father did not like to answer were always turned +aside. Usually Keith submitted with what grace he could muster; but +to-day he was in a persistent mood that would not be denied. + +"Dad, WHY won't you tell me about my brothers? Please, what were their +names, and how old were they, and why did they die?" + +[Illustration: "Want you? I always want you!"] + +"God knows why they died--I don't!" The man's arm about the boy's +shoulder tightened convulsively. + +"But how old were they?" + +"Ned was seven and Jerry was four, and they were the light of my eyes, +and--But why do you make me tell you? Isn't it enough, Keith, that +they went, one after the other, not two days apart? And then the sun +went out and left the world gray and cold and cheerless, for the next +day--your mother went." + +"And how about me, dad?" + +The man did not seem to have heard. Still with his arm about the boy's +shoulder, he had dropped back into the seat before the easel. His eyes +now were somberly fixed out the window. + +"Wasn't I--anywhere, dad?" + +With a start the man turned. His arm tightened again. His eyes grew +moist and very tender. + +"Anywhere? You're everywhere now, my boy. I'm afraid, at the first, +the very first, I didn't like to see you very well, perhaps because +you were ALL there was left. Then, little by little, I found you were +looking at me with your mother's eyes, and touching me with the +fingers of Ned and Jerry. And now--why, boy, you're everything. You're +Ned and Jerry and your mother all in one, my boy, my boy!" + +Keith stirred restlessly. A horrible tightness came to his throat, yet +there was a big lump that must be swallowed. + +"Er--that--that Woodland Path picture is going to be great, dad, +great!" he said then, in a very loud, though slightly husky, voice. +"Come on, let's----" + +From the hall Susan's voice interrupted, chanting in a high-pitched +singsong: + + "Dinner's ready, dinner's ready, + Hurry up, or you'll be late, + Then you'll sure be cross and heady + If there's nothin' left to ate." + +Keith gave a relieved whoop and bounded toward the door. Never had +Susan's "dinner-bell" been a more welcome sound. Surely, at dinner, +his throat would have to loosen up, and that lump could then be +swallowed. + +More slowly Keith's father rose from his chair. + +"How impossible Susan is," he sighed. "I believe she grows worse every +day. Still I suppose I ought to be thankful she's good-natured--which +that absurd doggerel of hers proves that she is. However, I should +like to put a stop to it. I declare, I believe I will put a stop to +it, too! I'm going to insist on her announcing her meals in a proper +manner. Oh, Susan," he began resolutely, as he flung open the dining-room +door. + +"Well, sir?" Susan stood at attention, her arms akimbo. + +"Susan, I--I insist--that is, I wish----" + +"You was sayin'--" she reminded him coldly, as he came to a helpless +pause. + +"Yes. That is, I was saying--" His eyes wavered and fell to the table. +"Oh, hash--red-flannel hash! That's fine, Susan!" + +But Susan was not to be cajoled. Her eyes still regarded him coldly. + +"Yes, sir, hash. We most generally does have beet hash after b'iled +dinner, sir. You was sayin'?" + +"Nothing, Susan, nothing. I--I've changed my mind," murmured the man +hastily, pulling out his chair. "Well, Keith, will you have some of +Susan's nice hash?" + +"Yes, sir," said Keith. + +Susan said nothing. But was there a quiet smile on her lips as she +left the room? If so, neither the man nor the boy seemed to notice it. + +As for the very obvious change of attitude on the part of the man--Keith +had witnessed a like phenomenon altogether too often to give it +a second thought. And as for the doggerel that had brought about the +situation--that, also, was too familiar to cause comment. + +It had been years since Susan first called them to dinner with her +"poem"; but Keith could remember just how pleased she had been, and +how gayly she had repeated it over and over, so as not to forget it. + +"Oh, of course I know that 'ate' ain't good etiquette in that place," +she had admitted at the time. "It should be 'eat.' But 'eat' don't +rhyme, an' 'ate' does. So I'm goin' to use it. An' I can, anyhow. It's +poem license; an' that'll let you do anything." + +Since then she had used the verse for every meal--except when she was +out of temper--and by substituting breakfast or supper for dinner, she +had a call that was conveniently universal. + +The fact that she used it ONLY when she was good-natured constituted +an unfailing barometer of the atmospheric condition of the kitchen, +and was really, in a way, no small convenience--especially for little +boys in quest of cookies or bread-and-jam. As for the master of the +house--this was not the first time he had threatened an energetic +warfare against that "absurd doggerel" (which he had cordially +abhorred from the very first); neither would it probably be the last +time that Susan's calm "Well, sir?" should send him into ignominious +defeat before the battle was even begun. And, really, after all was +said and done, there was still that one unfailing refuge for his +discomforted recollection: he could be thankful, when he heard it, +that she was good-natured; and with Susan that was no small thing to +be thankful for, as everybody knew--who knew Susan. + +To-day, therefore, the defeat was not so bitter as to take all the +sweetness out of the "red-flannel" hash, and the frown on Daniel +Burton's face was quite gone when Susan brought in the dessert. Nor +did it return that night, even when Susan's shrill voice caroled +through the hall: + + "Supper's ready, supper's ready, + Hurry up, or you'll be late, + Then you'll sure be cross and heady + If there's nothin' left to ate." + + + + +CHAPTER III + +FOR JERRY AND NED + + +It was Susan Betts who discovered that Keith was not reading so much +that summer. + +"An' him with his nose always in a book before," as she said one day +to Mrs. McGuire. "An' he don't act natural, somehow, neither, ter my +way of thinkin'. Have YOU noticed anything?" + +"Why, no, I don't know as I have," answered Mrs. McGuire from the +other side of the fence, "except that he's always traipsin' off to the +woods with his father. But then, he's always done that, more or less." + +"Indeed he has! But always before he's lugged along a book, sometimes +two; an' now--why he hain't even read the book his father give him on +his birthday. I know, 'cause I asked him one day what 't was about, +an' he said he didn't know; he hadn't read it." + +"Deary me, Susan! Well, what if he hadn't? I shouldn't fret about +that. My gracious, Susan, if you had four children same as I have, +instead of one, I guess you wouldn't do no worryin' jest because a boy +didn't read a book. Though, as for my John, he----" + +Susan lifted her chin. + +"I wasn't talkin' about your children, Mis' McGuire," she interrupted. +"An' I reckon nobody'd do no worryin' if they didn't read. But Master +Keith is a different supposition entirely. He's very intelligible, +Master Keith is, and so is his father before him. Books is food to +them--real food. Hain't you ever heard of folks devourin' books? Well, +they do it. Of course I don't mean literaryly, but metaphysically." + +"Oh, land o' love, Susan Betts!" cried Mrs. McGuire, throwing up both +hands and turning away scornfully. "Of course, when you get to talkin' +like that, NOBODY can say anything to you! However in the world that +poor Mr. Burton puts up with you, I don't see. _I_ wouldn't--not a +day--not a single day!" And by way of emphasis she entered her house +and shut the door with a slam. + +Susan Betts, left alone, shrugged her shoulders disdainfully. + +"Well, 'nobody asked you, sir, she said,'" she quoted, under her +breath, and slammed her door, also, by way of emphasis. + +Yet both Susan and Mrs. McGuire knew very well that the next day would +find them again in the usual friendly intercourse over the back-yard +fence. + +Susan Betts was a neighbor's daughter. She had lived all her life in +the town, and she knew everybody. Just because she happened to work in +Daniel Burton's kitchen was no reason, to her mind, why she should not +be allowed to express her opinion freely on all occasions, and on all +subjects, and to all persons. Such being her conviction she conducted +herself accordingly. And Susan always lived up to her convictions. + +In the kitchen to-day she found Keith. + +"Oh, I say, Susan, I was looking for you. Dad wants you." + +"What for?" + +"I don't know; but I GUESS it's because he wants to have something +besides beans and codfish and fish-hash to eat. Anyhow, he SAID he was +going to speak to you about it." + +Susan stiffened into inexorable sternness. + +"So he's goin' ter speak ter me, is he? Well, 't will be mighty little +good that'll do, as he ought to know very well. Beefsteaks an' roast +fowls cost money. Has he got the money for me?" + +Without waiting for an answer to her question, she strode through the +door leading to the dining-room and shut it crisply behind her. + +The boy did not follow her. Alone, in the kitchen he drummed idly on +the window-pane, watching the first few drops of a shower that had +been darkening the sky for an hour past. + +After a minute he turned slowly and gazed with listless eyes about the +kitchen. On the table lay a folded newspaper. After a moment's +hesitation he crossed the room toward it. He had the air of one +impelled by some inner force against his will. + +He picked the paper up, but did not at once look at it. In fact, he +looked anywhere but at it. Then, with a sudden jerk, he faced it. +Shivering a little he held it nearer, then farther away, then nearer +again. Then, with an inarticulate little cry he dropped the paper and +hurried from the room. + +No one knew better than Keith himself that he was not reading much +this summer. Not that he put it into words, but he had a feeling that +so long as he was not SEEING how blurred the printed words were, he +would not be sure that they were blurred. Yet he knew that always, +whenever he saw a book or paper, his fingers fairly tingled to pick it +up--and make sure. Most of the time, however, Keith tried not to +notice the books and papers. Systematically he tried to forget that +there were books and papers--and he tried to forget the Great Terror. + +Sometimes he persuaded himself that he was doing this. He contrived to +keep himself very busy that summer. Almost every day, when it did not +rain, he was off for a long walk with his father in the woods. His +father liked to walk in the woods. Keith never had to urge him to do +that. And what good times they had!--except that Keith did wish that +his father would not talk quite so much about what great things he, +Keith, was going to do when he should have become a man--and a great +artist. + +One day he ventured to remonstrate. + +"But, dad, maybe I--I shan't be a great artist at all. Maybe I shan't +be even a little one. Maybe I shall be just a--a man." + +Keith never forgot his father's answer nor his father's anguished face +as he made that answer. + +"Keith, I don't ever want you to let me hear you say that again. I +want you to KNOW that you're going to succeed. And you will succeed. +God will not be so cruel as to deny me that. _I_ have failed. You +needn't shake your head, boy, and say 'Oh, dad!' like that. I know +perfectly well what I'm talking about. _I_ HAVE FAILED--though it is +not often that I'll admit it, even to myself. But when I heard you say +to-day---- + +"Keith, listen to me. You've got to succeed. You've got to succeed not +only for yourself, but for Jerry and Ned, and for--me. All my hopes +for Jerry and Ned and for--myself are in you, boy. That's why, in all +our walks together, and at home in the studio, I'm trying to teach you +something that you will want to know by and by." + +Keith never remonstrated with his father after that. He felt worse +than ever now when his father talked of what great things he was going +to do; but he knew that remonstrances would do no good, but rather +harm; and he did not want to hear his father talk again as he had +talked that day, about Jerry and Ned and himself. As if it were not +bad enough, under the best of conditions, to have to be great and +famous for one's two dead brothers and one's father; while if one were +blind---- + +But Keith refused to think of that. He tried very hard, also, to +absorb everything that his father endeavored to teach him. He listened +and watched and said "yes, sir," and he did his best to make the +chalks and charcoal that were put into his hands follow the copy set +for him. + +To be sure, in this last undertaking, his efforts were not always +successful. The lines wavered and blurred and were far from clear. +Still, they were not half so bad as the print in books; and if it +should not get any worse--Besides, had he not always loved to draw +cats and dogs and faces ever since he could hold a pencil? + +And so, with some measure of hope as to the results, he was setting +himself to be that great and famous artist that his father said he +must be. + +But it was not all work for Keith these summer days. There were games +and picnics and berry expeditions with the boys and girls, all of +which he hailed with delight--one did not have to read, or even study +wavering lines and figures, on picnics or berrying expeditions! And +that WAS a relief. To be sure, there was nearly always Mazie, and if +there was Mazie, there was bound to be Dorothy. And Dorothy had said-- +Some way he could never see Dorothy without remembering what she did +say on that day he had come home from Uncle Joe Harrington's. + +Not that he exactly blamed her, either. For was not he himself acting +as if he felt the same way and did not like to look at blind persons? +Else why did he so persistently keep away from Uncle Joe now? Not +once, since that first day, had he been up to see the poor old blind +man. And before--why, before he used to go several times a week. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + +SCHOOL + + +And so the summer passed, and September came. And September brought a +new problem--school. And school meant books. + +Two days before school began Keith sought Susan Betts in the kitchen. + +"Say, Susan, that was awfully good johnny-cake we had this morning." + +Susan picked up another plate to dry and turned toward her visitor. +Her face was sternly grave, though there was something very like a +twinkle in her eye. + +"There ain't no cookies, if that's what you're wantin'," she said. + +"Aw, Susan, I never said a word about cookies." + +"Then what is it you want? It's plain to be seen there's something, I +ween." + +"My, how easy you do make rhymes, Susan. What's that 'I ween' mean?" + +"Now, Keith Burton, this beatin' the bush like this don't do one mite +of good. You might jest as well out with it first as last. Now, what +is it you want?" + +Keith drew a long sigh. + +"Well, Susan, there IS something--a little something--only I meant +what I said about the johnny-cake and the rhymes; truly, I did." + +"Well?" Susan was smiling faintly. + +"Susan, you know you can make dad do anything." + +Susan began to stiffen, and Keith hastened to disarm her. + +"No, no, truly! This is the part I want. You CAN make dad do anything; +and I want you to do it for me." + +"Do what?" + +"Make him let me off from school any more." + +"Let you off from school!" In her stupefied amazement Susan actually +forgot to pick up another plate from the dishpan. + +"Yes. Tell him I'm sick, or 't isn't good for me. And truly, 't isn't +good for me. And truly, I am quite a little sick, Susan. I don't feel +well a bit. There's a kind of sinking feeling in my stomach, and----" + +But Susan had found her wits and her tongue by this time, and she gave +free rein to her wrath. + +"Let you off from school, indeed! Why, Keith Burton, I'm ashamed of +you--an' you that I've always boasted of! What do you want to do--grow +up a perfect ignominious?" + +Keith drew back resentfully, and uptilted his chin. + +"No, Susan Betts, I'm not wanting to be a--a ignominious, and I don't +intend to be one, either. I'm going to be an artist--a great big +famous artist, and I don't NEED school for that. How are +multiplication tables and history and grammar going to help me paint +big pictures? That's what I want to know. But I'm afraid that dad-- +Say, WON'T you tell dad that I don't NEED books any more, and----" But +he stopped short, so extraordinary was the expression that had come to +Susan Betts's face. If it were possible to think of Susan Betts as +crying, he should think she was going to cry now. + +"Need books? Why, child, there ain't nobody but what needs books. An' +I guess I know! What do you suppose I wouldn't give now if I could 'a' +had books an' book-learnin' when I was young? I could 'a' writ real +poetry then that would sell. I could 'a' spoke out an' said things +that are in my soul, an' that I CAN'T say now, 'cause I don't know the +words that--that will impress what I mean. Now, look a-here, Keith +Burton, you're young. You've got a chance. Do you see to it that you +make good. An' it's books that will help you do it." + +"But books won't help me paint, Susan." + +"They will, too. Books will help you do anything." + +"Then you won't ask dad?" + +"Indeed, I won't." + +"But I don't see how books----" With a long sigh Keith turned away. + +In the studio the next morning he faced his father. + +"Dad, you can't learn to paint pictures by just READING how to do it, +can you?" + +"You certainly cannot, my boy." + +"There! I told Susan Betts so, but she wouldn't LISTEN to me. And so--I +don't have to go to school any more, do I?" + +"Don't have to go to school any more! Why, Keith, what an absurd idea! +Of course you've got to go to school!" + +"But just to be an artist and paint pictures, I don't see----" + +But his father cut him short and would not listen. + +Five minutes later a very disappointed, disheartened young lad left +the studio and walked slowly down the hall. + +There was no way out of it. If one were successfully to be Jerry and +Ned and dad and one's self, all in one, there was nothing but school +and more school, and, yes, college, that would give one the proper +training. Dad had said it. + +Keith went to school the next morning. With an oh-well-I-don't-care +air he slung his books over his shoulder and swung out the gate, +whistling blithely. + +It might not be so bad, after all, he was telling himself. Perhaps the +print would be plainer now. Anyway, he could learn a lot in class +listening to the others; and maybe some of the boys would study with +him, and do the reading part. + +But it was not to be so easy as Keith hoped for. To begin with, the +print had not grown any clearer. It was more blurred than ever. To be +sure, it was much worse with one eye than with the other; but he could +not keep one eye shut all the time. Besides--his eyes ached now if he +tried to use them much, and grew red and inflamed, and he was afraid +his father would notice them. He began to see strange flashes of +rainbow light now, too. And sometimes little haloes around the lamp +flame. As if one could study books with all that! + +True, he learned something in class--but naturally he was never called +upon to recite what had already been given, so he invariably failed +miserably when it came to his turn. Even the "boy to study with" +proved to be a delusion and a snare, for no boy was found who cared to +do "all the reading," without being told the reason why it was +expected of him--and that was exactly what Keith was straining every +nerve to keep to himself. + +And so week in and week out Keith stumbled along through those +misery-filled days, each one seemingly a little more unbearable than the +last. Of course, it could not continue indefinitely, and Keith, in his +heart, knew it. Almost every lesson was more or less of a failure, and +recitation hour was a torture and a torment. The teacher alternately +reproved and reproached him, with frequent appeals to his pride, +holding up for comparison his splendid standing of the past. His +classmates gibed and jeered mercilessly. And Keith stood it all. Only +a tightening of his lips and a new misery in his eyes showed that he +had heard and understood. He made neither apology nor explanation. +Above all, by neither word nor sign did he betray that, because the +print in his books was blurred, he could not study. + +Then came the day when his report card was sent to his father, and he +himself was summoned to the studio to answer for it. + +"Well, my son, what is the meaning of that?" + +Keith had never seen his father look so stern. He was holding up the +card, face outward. Keith knew that the damning figures were there, +and he suspected what they were, though he could see only a blurred +mass of indistinct marks. With one last effort he attempted still to +cling to his subterfuge. + +"What--what is it?" he stammered. + +"'What is it?'--and in the face of a record like that!" cried his +father sternly. "That's exactly what I want to know. What is it? Is +this the way, Keith, that you're showing me that you don't want to go +to school? I haven't forgotten, you see, that you tried to beg off +going this fall. Now, what is the matter?" + +Keith shifted his position miserably. His face grew white and +strained-looking. + +"I--I couldn't seem to get my lessons, dad." + +"Couldn't! You mean you wouldn't, Keith. Surely, you're not trying to +make me think you couldn't have made a better record than this, if +you'd tried." + +There was no answer. + +"Keith!" There was only pleading in the voice now--pleading with an +unsteadiness more eloquent than words. "Have you forgotten so soon +what I told you?--how now you hold all the hopes of Jerry and Ned and +of--dad in your own two hands? Keith, do you think, do you really +think you're treating Jerry and Ned and dad--square?" + +For a moment there was no answer; then a very faint, constrained voice +asked: + +"What were those figures, dad?" + +"Read for yourself." With the words the card was thrust into his hand. + +Keith bent his head. His eyes apparently were studying the card. + +"Suppose you read them aloud, Keith." + +There was a moment's pause; then with a little convulsive breath the +words came. + +"I--can't--dad." + +The man smiled grimly. + +"Well, I don't know as I wonder. They are pretty bad. However, I guess +we'll have to have them. Read them aloud, Keith." + +"But, honest, dad, I can't. I mean--they're all blurred and run +together." The boy's face was white like paper now. + +Daniel Burton gave his son a quick glance. + +"Blurred? Run together?" He reached for the card and held it a moment +before his own eyes. Then sharply he looked at his son again. "You +mean--Can't you read any of those figures--the largest ones?" + +Keith shook his head. + +"Why, Keith, how long----" A sudden change came to his face. "You +mean--is that the reason you haven't been able to get your lessons, boy?" + +Keith nodded dumbly, miserably. + +"But, my dear boy, why in the world didn't you say so? Look here, +Keith, how long has this been going on?" + +There was no answer. + +"Since the very first of school?" + +"Before that." + +"How long before that?" + +"Last spring on my--birthday. I noticed it first--then." + +"Good Heavens! As long as that, and never a word to me? Why, Keith, +what in the world possessed you? Why didn't you tell me? We'd have had +that fixed up long ago." + +"Fixed up?" Keith's eyes were eager, incredulous. + +"To be sure. We'd have had some glasses, of course." + +Keith shook his head. All the light fled from his face. + +"Uncle Joe Harrington tried that, but it didn't help--any." + +"Uncle Joe! But Uncle Joe is----" Daniel Burton stopped short. A new +look came to his eyes. Into his son's face he threw a glance at once +fearful, searching, rebellious. Then he straightened up angrily. + +"Nonsense, Keith! Don't get silly notions into your head," he snapped +sharply. "It's nothing but a little near-sightedness, and we'll have +some glasses to remedy that in no time. We'll go down to the +optician's to-morrow. Meanwhile I'll drop a note to your teacher, and +you needn't go to school again till we get your glasses." + +Near-sightedness! Keith caught at the straw and held to it fiercely. +Near-sightedness! Of course, it was that, and not blindness, like +Uncle Joe's at all. Didn't dad know? Of course, he did! Still, if it +was near-sightedness he ought to be able to see near to; and yet it +was just as blurred--But, then, of course it WAS near-sightedness. Dad +said it was. + +They went to the optician's the next morning. It seemed there was an +oculist, too, and he had to be seen. When the lengthy and arduous +examinations were concluded, Keith drew a long breath. Surely now, +after all that-- + +Just what they said Keith did not know. He knew only that he did not +get any glasses, and that his father was very angry, and very much put +out about something, and that he kept declaring that these old idiots +didn't know their business, anyway, and the only thing to do was to go +to Boston where there was somebody who DID know his business. + +They went to Boston a few days later. It was not a long journey, but +Keith hailed it with delight, and was very much excited over the +prospect of it. Still, he did not enjoy it very well, for with his +father he had to go from one doctor to another, and none of them +seemed really to understand his business--that is, not well enough to +satisfy his father, else why did he go to so many? And there did not +seem to be anywhere any glasses that would do any good. + +Keith began to worry then, for fear that his father had been wrong, +and that it was not near-sightedness after all. He could not forget +Uncle Joe--and Uncle Joe had not been able to find any glasses that +did any good. Besides, he heard his father and the doctors talking a +great deal about "an accident," and a "consequent injury to the optic +nerve"; and he had to answer a lot of questions about the time when he +was eleven years old and ran into the big maple tree with his sled, +cutting a bad gash in his forehead. But as if that, so long ago, could +have anything to do with things looking blurred now! + +But it did have something to do with it--several of the doctors said +that; and they said it was possible that a slight operation now might +arrest the disease. They would try it. Only one eye was badly affected +at present. + +So it was arranged that Keith should stay a month with one of the +doctors, letting his father go back to Hinsdale. + +It was not a pleasant experience, and it seemed to Keith anything but +a "slight operation"; but at the end of the month the bandages were +off, and his father had come to take him back home. + +The print was not quite so blurred now, though it was still far from +clear, and Keith noticed that his father and the doctors had a great +deal to say to each other in very low tones, and that his father's +face was very grave. + +Then they started for home. On the journey his father talked +cheerfully, even gayly; but Keith was not at all deceived. For perhaps +half an hour he watched his father closely. Then he spoke. + +"Dad, you might just as well tell me." + +"Tell you what?" + +"About those doctors--what they said." + +"Why, they said all sorts of things, Keith. You heard them yourself." +The man spoke lightly, still cheerily. + +"Oh, yes, they said all sorts of things, but they didn't say anything +PARTICULAR before me. They always talked to you soft and low on one +side. I want to know what they said then." + +"Why, really, Keith, they----" + +"Dad," interposed the boy a bit tensely, when his father's hesitation +left the sentence unfinished, "you might just as well tell me. I know +already it isn't good, or you'd have told me right away. And if it's +bad--I might just as well know it now, 'cause I'll have to know it +sometime. Dad, what did they say? Don't worry. I can stand it--honest, +I can. I've GOT to stand it. Besides, I've been expecting it--ever so +long. 'Keith, you're going to be blind.' I wish't you'd say it right +out like that--if you've got to say it." + +But the man shuddered and gave a low cry. + +"No, no, Keith, never! I'll not say it. You're not going to be blind!" + +"But didn't they say I was?" + +"They said--they said it MIGHT be. They couldn't tell yet." The man +wet his lips and cleared his throat huskily. "They said--it would be +some time yet before they could tell, for sure. And even then, if it +came, there might be another operation that--But for now, Keith, we've +got to wait--that's all. I've got some drops, and there are certain +things you'll have to do each day. You can't go to school, and you +can't read, of course; but there are lots of things you can do. And +there are lots of things we can do together--you'll see. And it's +coming out all right. It's bound to come out all right." + +"Yes, sir." Keith said the two words, then shut his lips tight. Keith +could not trust himself to talk much just then. Babies and girls +cried, of course; but men, and boys who were almost men--they did not +cry. + +For a long minute he said nothing; then, with his chin held high and +his breath sternly under control, he said: + +"Of course, dad, if I do get blind, you won't expect me to be Jerry, +and Ned, and--and you, all in a bunch, then, will you?" + +This time it was dad who could not speak--except with a strong right +arm that clasped with a pressure that hurt. + + + + +CHAPTER V + +WAITING + + +Not for some days after his return from Boston did Keith venture out +upon the street. He knew then at once that the whole town had heard +all about his trip to Boston and what the doctors had said. He tried +not to see the curious glances cast in his direction. He tried not to +care that the youngest McGuire children stood at their gate and +whispered, with fingers plainly pointing toward himself. + +He did not go near the schoolhouse, and he stayed at the post-office +until he felt sure all the scholars must have reached home. Then, just +at the corner of his own street, he met Mazie Sanborn and Dorothy +Parkman face to face. He would have passed quickly, with the briefest +sort of recognition, but Mazie stopped him short. + +"Keith, oh, Keith, it isn't true, is it?" she cried breathlessly. "You +aren't going to be blind?" + +"Mazie, how could you!" cried Dorothy sharply. And because she +shuddered and half turned away, Keith saw only the shudder and the +turning away, and did not realize that it was rebuke and remonstrance, +and not aversion, that Dorothy was expressing so forcibly. + +Keith stiffened. + +"Say, Keith, I'm awfully sorry, and so's Dorothy. Why, she hasn't +talked about a thing, hardly, but that, since she heard of it." + +"Mazie, I have, too," protested Dorothy sharply. + +"Well, anyway, it was she who insisted on coming around this way +to-day," teased Mazie wickedly; "and when I----" + +"I'm going home, whether you are or not," cut in Miss Dorothy, with +dignity. And with a low chuckle Mazie tossed a good-bye to Keith and +followed her lead. + +Keith, his chin aggressively high, strode in the opposite direction. + +"I suppose she wanted to see how really bad I did look," he was +muttering fiercely, under his breath. "Well, she needn't worry. If I +do get blind, I'll take good care she don't have to look at me, nor +Mazie, nor any of the rest of them." + +Keith went out on the street very little after that, and especially he +kept away from it after school hours. They were not easy--those winter +days. The snow lay deep in the woods, and it was too cold for long +walks. He could not read, nor paint, nor draw, nor use his eyes about +anything that tried them. But he was by no means idle. He had found +now "the boy to do the reading"--his father. For hours every day they +studied together, Keith memorizing, where it was necessary, what his +father read, always discussing and working out the problems together. +That he could not paint or draw was a great cross to his father, he +knew. + +Keith noticed, too,--and noticed it with a growing heartache,--that +nothing was ever said now about his being Jerry and Ned and dad +himself all in a bunch. And he understood, of course, that if he was +going to be blind, he could not be Jerry and-- + +But Keith was honestly trying not to think of that; and he welcomed +most heartily anything or anybody that helped him toward that end. + +Now there was Susan. Not once had Susan ever spoken to him of his +eyes, whether he could or could not see. But Susan knew about it. He +was sure of that. First he suspected it when he found her, the next +day after his return from Boston, crying in the pantry. + +SUSAN CRYING! Keith stood in the doorway and stared unbelievingly. He +had not supposed that Susan could cry. + +"Why, Susan!" he gasped. "What IS the matter?" + +He never forgot the look on Susan's face as she sprang toward him, or +the quick cry she gave. + +"Oh, Keith, my boy, my boy!" Then instantly she straightened back, +caught up a knife, and began to peel an onion from a pan on the shelf +before her. "Cryin'? Nonsense!" she snapped quaveringly. "Can't a body +peel a pan of onions without being accused of cryin' about somethin'? +Shucks! What should I be cryin' for, anyway, to be sure? + + Some things need a knife, + An' some things need a pill, + An' some things jest a laugh'll make a cure. + But jest you bet your life, + You may cry jest fit to kill, + An' never cure nothin'--that is sure. + +That's what I always say when I see folks cryin'. An' it's so, too. +Here, Keith, want a cooky? An' take a jam tart, too. I made 'em this +mornin', 'specially for you." + +With which astounding procedure--for her--Susan pushed a plate of +cookies and tarts toward him, then picked up her pan of onions and +hurried into the kitchen. + +Once again Keith stared. Cookies and jam tarts, and made for him? If +anything, this was even more incomprehensible than were the tears in +Susan's eyes. Then suddenly the suspicion came to him--SUSAN KNEW. And +this was her way---- + +The suspicion did not become a certainty, however, until two days +later. Then he overheard Susan and Mrs. McGuire talking in the +kitchen. He had slipped into the pantry to look for another of those +cookies made for him, when he heard Mrs. McGuire burst into the +kitchen and accost Susan agitatedly. And her first words were such +that he could not bring himself to step out into view. + +"Susan," she had cried, "it ain't true, is it? IS it true that Keith +Burton is going--BLIND? My John says----" + +"Sh-h! You don't have to shout it out like that, do ye?" demanded +Susan crossly, yet in a voice that was far from steady. "Besides, +that's a very extravagated statement." + +"You mean exaggerated, I suppose," retorted Mrs. McGuire impatiently. +"Well, I'm sure I'm glad if it is, of course. But can't you tell me +anything about it? Or, don't you know?" + +Keith knew--though he could not see her--just how Susan was drawing +herself up to her full height. + +"I guess I know--all there is to know, Mis' McGuire," she said then +coldly. "But there ain't anybody KNOWS anything. We're jest waitin' to +see." Her voice had grown unsteady again. + +"You mean he MAY be blind, later?" + +"Yes." + +"Oh, the poor boy! Ain't that terrible? How CAN they stand it?" + +"I notice there are things in this world that have to be stood. An' +when they have to be stood, they might as well be--stood, an' done +with it." + +"Yes, I suppose so," sighed Mrs. McGuire. Then, after a pause: "But +what is it--that's makin' him blind?" + +"I don't know. They ain't sayin'. I thought maybe't was a catamount, +but they say't ain't that." + +"But when is it liable to come?" + +"Come? How do I know? How does anybody know?" snapped Susan tartly. +"Look a-here, Mis' McGuire, you must excuse me from discoursin' +particulars. We don't talk 'em here. None of us don't." + +"Well, you needn't be so short about it, Susan Betts. I'm only tryin' +to show a little sympathy. You don't seem to realize at all what a +dreadful thing this is. My John says----" + +"Don't I--DON'T I?" Susan's voice shook with emotion. "Don't you +s'pose that I know what it would be with the sun put out, an' the moon +an' the stars, an' never a thing to look at but black darkness all the +rest of your life? Never to be able to see the blue sky, or your +father's face, or--But talkin' about it don't help any. Look a-here, +if somethin' awful was goin' to happen to you, would YOU want folks to +be talkin' to you all the time about it? No, I guess you wouldn't. An' +so we don't talk here. We're just--waitin'. It may come in a year, it +may come sooner, or later. It may not come at all. An' while we ARE +waitin' there ain't nothin' we can do except to do ev'rything the +doctor tells us, an' hope--'t won't ever come." + +Even Mrs. McGuire could have had no further doubt about Susan's +"caring." No one who heard Susan's voice then could have doubted it. +Mrs. McGuire, for a moment, made no answer; then, with an inarticulate +something that might have passed for almost any sort of comment, she +rose to her feet and left the house. + +In the pantry, Keith, the cookies long since forgotten, shamelessly +listened at the door and held his breath to see which way Susan's +footsteps led. Then, when he knew that the kitchen was empty, he +slipped out, still cookyless, and hurried upstairs to his own room. + +Keith understood, after that, why Susan did not talk to him about his +eyes; and because he knew she would not talk, he felt at ease and at +peace with her. + +It was not so with others. With others (except with his father) he +never knew when a dread question or a hated comment was to be made. +And so he came to avoid those others more and more. + +At the first signs of spring, and long before the snow was off the +ground, Keith took to the woods. When his father did not care to go, +he went alone. It was as if he wanted to fill his inner consciousness +with the sights and sounds of his beloved out-of-doors, so that when +his outer eyes were darkened, his inner eyes might still hold the +pictures. Keith did not say this, even to himself; but when every day +Susan questioned him minutely as to what he had seen, and begged him +to describe every budding tree and every sunset, he wondered; was it +possible that Susan, too, was trying to fill that inner consciousness +with visions? + +Keith was thrown a good deal with Susan these days. Sometimes it +seemed as if there were almost no one but Susan. Certainly all those +others who talked and questioned--he did not want to be with them. And +his father--sometimes it seemed to Keith that his father did not like +to be with him as well as he used to. And, of course, if he was going +to be blind--Dad never had liked disagreeable subjects. Had HE +become--a disagreeable subject? + +And so there seemed, indeed, at times, no one but Susan. Susan, +however, was a host in herself. Susan was never cross now, and almost +always she had a cooky or a jam tart for him. She told lots of funny +stories, and there were always her rhymes and jingles. She had a new +one every day, sometimes two or three a day. + +There was no subject too big or too little for Susan to put into +rhyme. Susan said that something inside of her was a gushing siphon of +poems, anyway, and she just had to get them out of her system. And she +told Keith that spring always made the siphon gush worse than ever, +for some reason. She didn't know why. + +Keith suspected that she said this by way of an excuse for repeating +so many of her verses to him just now. But Keith was not deceived. He +had not forgotten what Susan had said to Mrs. McGuire in the kitchen +that day; and he knew very well that all this especial attention to +him was only Susan's way of trying to help him "wait." + + + + +CHAPTER VI + +LIGHTS OUT + + +And so Keith waited, through the summer and into another winter. And +April came. Keith was not listening to Susan's rhymes and jingles now, +nor was he tramping through the woods in search of the first sign of +spring. Both eyes had become badly affected now. Keith knew that and-- + +THE FOG HAD COME. Keith had seen the fog for several days before he +knew what it was. He had supposed it to be really--fog. Then one day +he said to Susan: + +"Where's the sun? We haven't had any BRIGHT sun for days and days--just +this horrid old foggy fog." + +"Fog? Why, there ain't any fog!" exclaimed Susan. "The sun is as +bright----" She stopped short. Keith could not see her face very +clearly--Keith was not seeing anything clearly these days. "Nonsense, +Keith, of course, the sun is shinin'!" snapped Susan. "Now don't get +silly notions in your head!" Then she turned and hurried from the +room. + +And Keith knew. And he knew that Susan knew. + +Keith did not mention the fog to his father--dad did not like +disagreeable subjects. But somebody must have mentioned it--Susan, +perhaps. At all events, before the week was out Keith went with his +father again to Boston. + +It was a sorry journey. Keith did not need to go to Boston. Keith knew +now. There was no one who could tell him anything. Dad might laugh and +joke and call attention to everything amusing that he wanted to--it +would make no difference. Besides, as if he could not hear the shake +in dad's voice under all the fun, and as if he could not feel the +tremble in dad's hand on his shoulder! + +Boston was the same dreary round of testing, talk, and questions, +hushed voices and furtive glances, hurried trips from place to place; +only this time it was all sharper, shorter, more decisive, and there +was no operation. It was not the time for that now, the doctors said. +Moreover, this time dad did not laugh, or joke, or even talk on the +homeward journey. But that, too, made no difference. Keith already +knew. + +He knew so well that he did not question him at all. But if he had not +known, he would have known from Susan the next day. For he found Susan +crying three times the next forenoon, and each time she snapped out so +short and sharp about something so entirely foreign from what he asked +her that he would have known that Susan knew. + +Keith did wonder how many months it would be. Some way he had an idea +it would be very few now. As long as it was coming he wished it would +come, and come quick. This waiting business--On the whole he was glad +that Susan was cross, and that his father spent his days shut away in +his own room with orders that he was not to be disturbed. For, as for +talking about this thing-- + +It was toward the last of July that Keith discovered how indistinct +were growing the outlines of the big pictures on the wall at the end +of the hall. Day by day he had to walk nearer and nearer before he +could see them at all. He wondered just how many steps would bring him +to the wall itself. He was tempted once to count them--but he could +not bring himself to do that; so he knew then that in his heart he did +not want to know just how many days it would be before-- + +But there came a day when he was but two steps away. He told himself +it would be in two days then. But it did not come in two days. It did +not come in a week. Then, very suddenly, it came. + +He woke up one morning to find it quite dark. For a minute he thought +it WAS dark; then the clock struck seven--and it was August. + +Something within Keith seemed to snap then. The long-pent strain of +months gave way. With one agonized cry of "Dad, it's come--it's come!" +he sprang from the bed, then stood motionless in the middle of the +room, his arms outstretched. But when his father and Susan reached the +room he had fallen to the floor in a dead faint. + +It was some weeks before Keith stood upright on his feet again. His +illness was a long and serious one. Late in September, Mrs. McGuire, +hanging out her clothes, accosted Susan over the back-yard fence. + +"I heard down to the store last night that Keith Burton was goin' to +get well." + +"Of course he's goin' to get well," retorted Susan with emphasis. "I +knew he was, all the time." + +"All the same, I think it's a pity he is." Mrs. McGuire's lips came +together a bit firmly. "He's stone blind, I hear, an' my John says--" + +"Well, what if he is?" demanded Susan, almost fiercely. "You wouldn't +kill the child, would you? Besides SEEIN' is only one of his +facilities. He's got all the rest left. I reckon he'll show you he can +do somethin' with them." + +Mrs. McGuire shook her head mournfully. + +"Poor boy, poor boy! How's he feel himself? Has he got his senses, his +real senses yet?" + +"He's just beginnin' to." The harshness in Susan's voice betrayed her +difficulty in controlling it. "Up to now he hain't sensed anything, +much. Of course, part of the time he hain't known ANYTHING--jest lay +there in a stupid. Then, other times he's jest moaned of-of the +dark--always the dark. + +"At first he--when he talked--seemed to be walkin' through the woods; +an' he'd tell all about what he saw; the 'purple sunsets,' an' +'dancin' leaves,' an' the merry little brooks hurryin' down the +hillside,' till you could jest SEE the place he was talkin' about. But +now--now he's comin' to full conscientiousness, the doctor says; an' +he don't talk of anything only--only the dark. An' pretty quick +he'll--know." + +"An' yet you want that poor child to live, Susan Betts!" + +"Of course I want him to live!" + +"But what can he DO?" + +"Do? There ain't nothin' he can't do. Why, Mis' McGuire, listen! I've +been readin' up. First, I felt as you do--a little. I--I didn't WANT +him to live. Then I heard of somebody who was blind, an' what he did. +He wrote a great book. I've forgotten its name, but it was somethin' +about Paradise. PARADISE--an' he was in prison, too. Think of writin' +about Paradise when you're shut up in jail--an' blind, at that! Well, +I made up my mind if that man could see Paradise through them prison +bars with his poor blind eyes, then Keith could. An' I was goin' to +have him do it, too. An' so I went down to the library an' asked Miss +Hemenway for a book about him. An' I read it. An' then she told me +about more an' more folks that was blind, an' what they had done. An' +I read about them, too." + +"Well, gracious me, Susan Betts, if you ain't the limit!" commented +Mrs. McGuire, half admiringly, half disapprovingly. + +"Well, I did. An'--why, Mis' McGuire, you hain't any inception of an +idea of what those men an' women an'--yes, children--did. Why, one of +'em wasn't only blind, but deaf an' dumb, too. She was a girl. An' now +she writes books an' gives lecturin's, an', oh, ev'rything." + +"Maybe. I ain't sayin' they don't. But I guess somebody else has to do +a part of it. Look at Keith right here now. How are you goin' to take +care of him when he gets up an' begins to walk around? Why, he can't +see to walk or--or feed himself, or anything. Has the nurse gone?" + +Susan shook her head. Her lips came together grimly. + +"No. Goes next week, though. Land's sakes, but I hope that woman is +expulsive enough! Them entrained nurses always cost a lot, I guess. +But we've just had to have her while he was so sick. But she's goin' +next week." + +"But what ARE you goin' to do? You can't tag him around all day an' do +your other work, too. Of course, there's his father--" + +"His father! Good Heavens, woman, I wonder if you think I'd trust that +boy to his father?" demanded Susan indignantly. "Why, once let him get +his nose into that paint-box, an' he don't know anything--not +anything. Why, I wouldn't trust him with a baby rabbit--if I cared for +the rabbit. Besides, he don't like to be with Keith, nor see him, nor +think of him. He feels so bad." + +"Humph! Well, if he does feel bad I don't think that's a very nice way +to show it. Not think of him, indeed! Well, I guess he'll find SOME +one has got to think of him now. But there! that's what you might +expect of Daniel Burton, I s'pose, moonin' all day over those silly +pictures of his. As my John says--" + +"They're not silly pictures," cut in Susan, flaring into instant +wrath. "He HAS to paint pictures in order to get money to live, don't +he? Well, then, let him paint. He's an artist--an extinguished +artist--not just a common storekeeper." (Mr. McGuire, it might be +mentioned in passing, kept a grocery store.) "An' if you're +artistical, you're different from other folks. You have to be." + +"Nonsense, Susan! That's all bosh, an' you know it. What if he does +paint pictures? That hadn't ought to hinder him from takin' proper +care of his own son, had it?" + +"Yes, if he's blind." Susan spoke with firmness and decision. "You +don't seem to understand at all, Mis' McGuire. Mr. Burton is an +artist. Artists like flowers an' sunsets an' clouds an' brooks. They +don't like disagreeable things. They don't want to see 'em or think +about 'em. I know. It's that way with Mr. Burton. Before, when Keith +was all right, he couldn't bear him out of his sight, an' he was goin' +to have him do such big, fine, splendid things when he grew up. Now, +since he's blind, he can't bear him IN his sight. He feels that bad. +He just won't be with him if he can help it. But he ain't forgettin' +him. He's thinkin' of him all the time. _I_ KNOW. An' it's tellin' on +him. He's lookin' thin an' bad an' sick. You see, he's so +disappointed, when he'd counted on such big things for that boy!" + +"Humph! Well, I'll risk HIM. It's Keith I'm worry in' about. Who is +going to take care of him?" + +Susan Betts frowned. + +"Well, _I_ could, I think. But there's a sister of Mr. Burton's--she's +comin'." + +"Not Nettie Colebrook?" + +"Yes, Mis' Colebrook. That's her name. She's a widow, an' hain't got +anything needin' her. She wrote an' offered, an' Mr. Burton said yes, +if she'd be so kind. An' she's comin'." + +"When?" + +"Next week. The day the nurse goes. Why? What makes you look so queer? +Do you know--Mis' Colebrook?" + +"Know Nettie Burton Colebrook? Well, I should say I did! I went to +boardin'-school with her." + +"Humph!" Susan threw a sharp glance into Mrs. McGuire's face. Susan +looked as if she wanted to ask another question. But she did not ask +it. "Humph!" she grunted again; and turned back to the sheet she was +hanging on the line. + +There was a brief pause, then Mrs. McGuire commented dryly: + +"I notice you ain't doin' no rhymin' to-day, Susan." + +"Ain't I? Well, perhaps I ain't. Some way, they don't come out now so +natural an' easy-like." + +"What's the matter? Ain't the machine workin'?" + +Susan shook her head. Then she drew a long sigh. Picking up her empty +basket she looked at it somberly. + +"Not the way it did before. Some way, there don't seem anything inside +of me now only dirges an' funeral marches. Everywhere, all day, +everything I do an' everywhere I go I jest hear: 'Keith's blind, +Keith's blind!' till it seems as if I jest couldn't bear it." + +With something very like a sob Susan turned and hurried into the +house. + + + + +CHAPTER VII + +SUSAN TO THE RESCUE + + +It was when the nurse was resting and Susan was with Keith that the +boy came to a full, realizing sense of himself, on his lips the +time-worn question asked by countless other minds back from that +mysterious land of delirium: + +"Where am I?" + +Susan sprang to her feet, then dropped on her knees at the bedside. + +"In your own bed--honey." + +"Is that--Susan?" No wonder he asked the question. Whenever before had +Susan talked like that? + +"Sure it's Susan." + +"But I can't--see you--or anything. Oh-h!" With a shudder and a +quivering cry the boy flung out his hands, then covered his eyes with +them. "I know, now, I know! It's come--it's come! I am--BLIND!" + +"There, there, honey, don't, please don't. You'll break Susan's heart. +An' you're SO much better now." + +"Better?" + +"Yes. You've been sick--very sick." + +"How long?" + +"Oh, several weeks. It's October now." + +"And I've been blind all that time?" + +"Yes." + +"But I haven't known I was blind!" + +"No." + +"I want to go back--I want to go back, where I didn't know--again." + +"Nonsense, Keith!" (Susan was beginning to talk more like herself.) +"Go back to be sick? Of course you don't want to go back an' be sick! +Listen! + + Don't you worry, an' don't you fret. + Somethin' better is comin' yet. + Somethin' fine! What'll you bet? + It's jest the thing you're wantin' ter get! + +Come, come! We're goin' to have you up an' out in no time, now, boy!" + +"I don't want to be up and out. I'm blind, Susan." + +"An' there's your dad. He'll be mighty glad to know you're better. +I'll call him." + +"No, no, Susan--don't! Don't call him. He won't want to see me. Nobody +will want to see me now. I'm blind, Susan--blind!" + +"Shucks! Everybody will want to see you, so's to see how splendid you +are, even if you are blind. Now don't talk any more--please don't; +there's a good boy. You're gettin' yourself all worked up, an' then, +oh, my, how that nurse will scold!" + +"I shan't be splendid," moaned the boy. "I shan't be anything, now. I +shan't be Jerry or Ned or dad. I shall be just ME. And I'll be pointed +at everywhere; and they'll whisper and look and stare, and say, 'He's +blind--he's blind--he's blind.' I tell you, Susan, I can't stand it. I +can't--I can't! I want to go back. I want to go back to where I +didn't--KNOW!" + +The nurse came in then, and of course Susan was banished in disgrace. +Of course, too, Keith was almost in hysterics, and his fever had gone +away up again. He still talked in a high, shrill voice, and still +thrashed his arms wildly about, till the little white powder the nurse +gave him got in its blessed work. And then he slept. + +Keith was entirely conscious the next day when Susan came in to sit +with him while the nurse took her rest. But it was a very different +Keith. It was a weary, spent, nerveless Keith that lay back on the +pillow with scarcely so much as the flutter of an eyelid to show life. + +"Is there anything I can get you, Keith?" she asked, when a long-drawn +sigh convinced her that he was awake. + +Only a faint shake of the head answered her. + +"The doctor says you're lots better, Keith." + +There was no sort of reply to this; and for another long minute Susan +sat tense and motionless, watching the boy's face. Then, with almost a +guilty look over her shoulder, she stammered: + +"Keith, I don't want you to talk to me, but I do wish you'd just SPEAK +to me." + +But Keith only shook his head again faintly and turned his face away +to the wall. + +By and by the nurse came in, and Susan left the room. She went +straight to the kitchen, and she did not so much as look toward +Keith's father whom she met in the hall. In the kitchen Susan caught +up a cloth and vigorously began to polish a brass faucet. The faucet +was already a marvel of brightness; but perhaps Susan could not see +that. One cannot always see clearly--through tears. + +Keith was like this every day after that, when Susan came in to sit +with him--silent, listless, seemingly devoid of life. Yet the doctor +declared that physically the boy was practically well. And the nurse +was going at the end of the week. + +On the last day of the nurse's stay, Susan accosted her in the hall +somewhat abruptly. + +"Is it true that by an' by there could be an operator on that boy's +eyes?" + +"Oper--er--oh, operation! Yes, there might be, if he could only get +strong enough to stand it. But it might not be successful, even then." + +"But there's a chance?" + +"Yes, there's a chance." + +"I s'pose it--it would be mighty expulsive, though." + +"Expulsive?" The young woman frowned slightly; then suddenly she +smiled. "Oh! Oh, yes, I--I'm afraid it would--er--cost a good deal of +money," she nodded over her shoulder as she went on into Keith's room. + +That evening Susan sought her employer in the studio. Daniel Burton +spent all his waking hours in the studio now. The woods and fields +were nothing but a barren desert of loneliness to Daniel Burton--without +Keith. + +The very poise of Susan's head spelt aggressive determination as she +entered the studio; and Daniel Burton shifted uneasily in his chair as +he faced her. Nor did he fail to note that she carried some folded +papers in her hand. + +"Yes, yes, Susan, I know. Those bills are due, and past due," he cried +nervously, before Susan could speak. "And I hoped to have the money, +both for them and for your wages, long before this. But----" + +Susan stopped him short with an imperative gesture. + +"T ain't bills, Mr. Burton, an't ain't wages. It's--it's somethin' +else. Somethin' very importune." There was a subdued excitement in +Susan's face and manner that was puzzling, yet most promising. + +Unconsciously Daniel Burton sat a little straighter and lifted his +chin--though his eyes were smiling. + +"Something else?" + +"Yes. It's--poetry." + +"Oh, SUSAN!" It was as if a bubble had been pricked, leaving nothing +but empty air. + +"But you don't know--you don't understand, yet," pleaded Susan, +unerringly reading the disappointment in her employer's face. "It's to +sell--to get some money, you know, for the operator on the poor lamb's +eyes. I--I wanted to help, some way. An' this is REAL poetry--truly it +is!--not the immaculate kind that I jest dash off! I've worked an' +worked over this, an' I'm jest sure it'll sell, It's GOT to sell, Mr. +Burton. We've jest got to have that money. An' now, I--I want to read +'em to you. Can't I, please?" + +And this from Susan--this palpitating, pleading "please"! Daniel +Burton, with a helpless gesture that expressed embarrassment, dismay, +bewilderment, and resignation, threw up both hands and settled back in +his chair. + +"Why, of--of course, Susan, read them," he muttered as clearly as he +could, considering the tightness that had come into his throat. + +And Susan read this: + + SPRING + + Oh, gentle Spring, I love thy rills, + I love thy wooden, rocky rills, + I love thy budsome beauty. + But, oh, I hate o'er anything, + Thy mud an' slush, oh, gentle Spring, + When rubbers are a duty. + +"That's the shortest--the other is longer," explained Susan, still the +extraordinary, palpitating Susan, with the shining, pleading eyes. + +"Yes, go on." Daniel Burton had to clear his throat before he could +say even those two short words. + +"I called this 'Them Things That Plague,'" said Susan. "An' it's +really true, too. Don't you know? Things DO plague worse nights, when +you can't sleep. An' you get to thinkin' an' thinkin'. Well, that's +what made me write this." And she began to read: + + THEM THINGS THAT PLAGUE + + They come at night, them things that plague, + An' gather round my bed. + They cluster thick about the foot, + An' lean on top the head. + + They like the dark, them things that plague, + For then they can be great, + They loom like doom from out the gloom, + An' shriek: "I am your Fate!" + + But, after all, them things that plague + Are cowards--Say not you?-- + To strike a man when he is down, + An' in the darkness, too. + + For if you'll watch them things that plague, + Till comin' of the dawn, + You'll find, when once you're on your feet, + Them things that plague--are gone! + +"There, ain't that true--every word of it?" she demanded. "An' there +ain't hardly any poem license in it, too. I think they're a ways lots +better when there ain't; but sometimes, of course, you jest have to +use it. There! an' now I've read 'em both to you--an' how much do you +s'pose I can get for 'em--the two of 'em, either singly or doubly?" +Susan was still breathless, still shining-eyed--a strange, exotic +Susan, that Daniel Burton had never seen before. "I've heard that +writers--some writers--get lots of money, Mr. Burton, an' I can write +more--lots more. Why, when I get to goin' they jest come +autocratically--poems do--without any thinkin' at all; an'--But how +much DO you think I ought to get?" + +"Get? Good Heavens woman!" Daniel Burton was on his feet now trying to +shake off the conflicting emotions that were all but paralyzing him. +"Why, you can't get anything for those da----" Just in time he pulled +himself up. At that moment, too, he saw Susan's face. He sat down +limply. + +"Susan." He cleared his throat and began again. He tried to speak +clearly, judiciously, kindly. "Susan, I'm afraid--that is, I'm not +sure--Oh, hang it all, woman"--he was on his feet now--"send them, if +you want to--but don't blame me for the consequences." And with a +gesture, as of flinging the whole thing far from him, he turned his +back and walked away. + +"You mean--you don't think I can get hardly anything for 'em?" An +extraordinarily meek, fearful Susan asked the question. + +Only a shrug of the back-turned shoulders answered her. + +"But, Mr. Burton, we--we've got to have the money for that operator; +an', anyhow, I--I mean to try." With a quick indrawing of her breath +she turned abruptly and left the studio. + +That evening, in her own room, Susan pored over the two inexpensive +magazines that came to the house. She was searching for poems and for +addresses. + +As she worked she began to look more cheerful. Both the magazines +published poems, and if they published one poem they would another, of +course, especially if the poem were a better one--and Susan could not +help feeling that they were better (those poems of hers) than almost +any she saw there in print before her. There was some SENSE to her +poems, while those others--why, some of them didn't mean anything, not +anything!--and they didn't even rhyme! + +With real hope and courage, therefore, Susan laboriously copied off +the addresses of the two magazines, directed two envelopes, and set +herself to writing the first of her two letters. That done, she copied +the letter, word for word--except for the title of the poem submitted. + +It was a long letter. Susan told first of Keith and his misfortune, +and the imperative need of money for the operation. Then she told +something of herself, and of her habit of turning everything into +rhyme; for she felt it due to them, she said, that they know something +of the person with whom they were dealing. She touched again on the +poverty of the household, and let it plainly be seen that she had high +hopes of the money these poems were going to bring. She did not set a +price. She would leave that to their own indiscretion, she said in +closing. + +It was midnight before Susan had copied this letter and prepared the +two manuscripts for mailing. Then, tired, but happy, she went to bed. + +It was the next day that the nurse went, and that Mrs. Colebrook came. + +The doctor said that Keith might be dressed now, any day--that he +should be dressed, in fact, and begin to take some exercise. He had +already sat up in a chair every day for a week--and he was in no +further need of medicine, except a tonic to build him up. In fact, all +efforts now should be turned toward building him up, the doctor said. +That was what he needed. + +All this the nurse mentioned to Mr. Burton and to Susan, as she was +leaving. She went away at two o'clock, and Mrs. Colebrook was not to +come until half-past five. At one minute past two Susan crept to the +door of Keith's room and pushed it open softly. The boy, his face to +the wall, lay motionless. But he was not asleep. Susan knew that, for +she had heard his voice not five minutes before, bidding the nurse +good-bye. For one brief moment Susan hesitated. Then, briskly, she +stepped into the room with a cheery: + +"Well, Keith, here we are, just ourselves together. The nurse is gone +an' I am on--how do you like the weather?" + +"Yes, I know, she said she was going." The boy spoke listlessly, +wearily, without turning his head. + +"What do you say to gettin' up?" + +Keith stirred restlessly. + +"I was up this morning." + +"Ho!" Susan tossed her head disdainfully. "I don't mean THAT way. I +mean up--really up with your clothes on." + +The boy shook his head again. + +"I couldn't. I--I'm too tired." + +"Nonsense! A great boy like you bein' too tired to get up! Why Keith, +it'll do you good. You'll feel lots better when you're up an' dressed +like folks again." + +The boy gave a sudden cry. + +"That's just it, Susan. Don't you see? I'll never be--like folks +again." + +"Nonsense! Jest as if a little thing like bein' blind was goin' to +keep you from bein' like folks again!" Susan was speaking very loudly, +very cheerfully--though with first one hand, then the other, she was +brushing away the hot tears that were rolling down her cheeks. "Why, +Keith, you're goin' to be better than folks--jest common folks. You're +goin' to do the most wonderful things that----" + +"But I can't--I'm blind, I tell you!" cut in the boy. "I can't +do--anything, now." + +"But you can, an' you're goin' to," insisted Susan again. "You jest +wait till I tell you; an' it's because you ARE blind that it's goin' +to be so wonderful. But you can't do it jest lyin' abed there in that +lazy fashion. Come, I'm goin' to get your clothes an' put 'em right on +this chair here by the bed; then I'm goin' to give you twenty minutes +to get into 'em. I shan't give you but fifteen tomorrow." Susan was +moving swiftly around the room now, opening closet doors and bureau +drawers. + +"No, no, Susan, I can't get up," moaned the boy turning his face back +to the wall. "I can't--I can't!" + +"Yes, you can. Now, listen. They're all here, everything you need, on +these two chairs by the bed." + +"But how can I dress me when I can't see a thing?" + +"You can feel, can't you?" + +"Y-yes. But feeling isn't seeing. You don't KNOW." + +Susan gave a sudden laugh--she would have told you it was a laugh--but +it sounded more like a sob. + +"But I do know, an' that's the funny part of it, Keith," she cried. +"Listen! What do you s'pose your poor old Susan's been doin'? You'd +never guess in a million years, so I'm goin' to tell you. For the last +three mornin's she's tied up her eyes with a handkerchief an' then +DRESSED herself, jest to make sure it COULD be done, you know." + +"Susan, did you, really?" For the first time a faint trace of interest +came into the boy's face. + +"Sure I did! An' Keith, it was great fun, really, jest to see how +smart I could be, doin' it. An' I timed myself, too. It took me +twenty-five minutes the first time. Dear, dear, but I was clumsy! But +I can do it lots quicker now, though I don't believe I'll ever do it +as quick as you will." + +"Do you think I could do it, really?" + +"I know you could." + +"I could try," faltered Keith dubiously. + +"You ain't goin' to TRY, you're goin' to DO it," declared Susan. "Now, +listen. I'm goin' out, but in jest twenty minutes I'm comin' back, an' +I shall expect to find you all dressed. I--I shall be ashamed of you +if you ain't." And without another glance at the boy, and before he +could possibly protest, Susan hurried from the room. + +Her head was still high, and her voice still determinedly clear--but +in the hall outside the bedroom, Susan burst into such a storm of sobs +that she had to hurry to the kitchen and shut herself in the pantry +lest they be heard. + +Later, when she had scornfully lashed herself into calmness, she came +out into the kitchen and looked at the clock. + +"An' I've been in there five minutes, I'll bet ye, over that fool cry +in'," she stormed hotly to herself. "Great one, I am, to take care of +that boy, if I can't control myself better than this!" + +At the end of what she deemed to be twenty minutes, and after a +fruitless "puttering" about the kitchen, Susan marched determinedly +upstairs to Keith's room. At the door she did hesitate a breathless +minute, then, resolutely, she pushed it open. + +The boy, fully dressed, stood by the bed. His face was alight, almost +eager. + +"I did it--I did it, Susan! And if it hasn't been more than twenty +minutes, I did it sooner than you!" + +Susan tried to speak; but the tears were again chasing each other down +her cheeks, and her face was working with emotion. + +"Susan!" The boy put out his hand gropingly, turning his head with the +pitiful uncertainty of the blind. "Susan, you are there, aren't you?" + +Susan caught her breath chokingly, and strode into the room with a +brisk clatter. + +"Here? Sure I'm here--but so dumb with amazement an' admiration that I +couldn't open my head--to see you standin' there all dressed like +that! What did I tell you? I knew you could do it. Now, come, let's go +see dad." She was at his side now, her arm linked into his. + +But the boy drew back. + +"No, no, Susan, not there. He--he wouldn't like it. Truly, he--he +doesn't want to see me. You know he--he doesn't like to see +disagreeable things." + +"'Disagreeable things,' indeed!" exploded Susan, her features working +again. "Well, I guess if he calls it disagreeable to see his son +dressed up an' walkin' around--" + +But Keith interrupted her once more, with an even stronger protest, +and Susan was forced to content herself with leading her charge out on +to the broad veranda that ran across the entire front of the house. +There they walked back and forth, back and forth. + +She was glad, afterward, that this was all she did, for at the far end +of the veranda Daniel Burton stepped out from a door, and stood for a +moment watching them. But it was for only a moment. And when she +begged mutely for him to come forward and speak, he shook his head +fiercely, covered his eyes with his hand, and plunged back into the +house. + +"What was that, Susan? What was that?" demanded the boy. + +"Nothin', child, nothin', only a door shuttin' somewhere, or a +window." + +At that moment a girl's voice caroled shrilly from the street. + +"Hullo, Keith, how do you do? We're awfully glad to see you out +again." + +The boy started violently, but did not turn his head--except to Susan. + +"Susan, I--I'm tired. I want to go in now," he begged a little wildly, +under his breath. + +"Keith, it's Mazie--Mazie and Dorothy," caroled the high-pitched voice +again. + +But Keith, with a tug so imperative that Susan had no choice but to +obey, turned his head quite away as he groped for the door to go in. + +In the hall he drew a choking breath. + +"Susan, I don't want to go out there to walk any more--NOT ANY MORE! I +don't want to go anywhere where anybody'll see me." + +"Shucks!" Susan's voice was harshly unsteady again. "See you, indeed! +Why, we're goin' to be so proud of you we'll want the whole world to +see you. + + You jest wait + An' see the fate + That I've cut out for you. + We'll be so proud + We'll laugh aloud, + An' you'll be laughin', too! + +I made that up last night when I laid awake thinkin' of all the fine +things we was goin' to have you do." + +But Keith only shook his head again and complained of feeling, oh, so +tired. And Susan, looking at his pale, constrained face, did not quote +any more poetry to him, or talk about the glorious future in store for +him. She led him to the easiest chair in his room and made him as +comfortable as she could. Then she went downstairs and shut herself in +the pantry--until she could stop her "fool cryin' over nothin'." + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +AUNT NETTIE MEETS HER MATCH + + +Mrs. Nettie Colebrook came at half-past five. She was a small, +nervous-looking woman with pale-blue eyes and pale-yellow hair. She +greeted her brother with a burst of tears. + +"Oh, Daniel, Daniel, how can you stand it--how can you stand it!" she +cried, throwing herself upon the man's somewhat unresponsive shoulder. + +"There, there, Nettie, control yourself, do!" besought the man +uncomfortably, trying to withdraw himself from the clinging arms. + +"But how CAN you stand it!--your only son--blind!" wailed Mrs. +Colebrook, with a fresh burst of sobs. + +"I notice some things have to be stood," observed Susan grimly. Susan, +with Mrs. Colebrook's traveling-bag in her hand, was waiting with +obvious impatience to escort her visitor upstairs to her room. + +Susan's terse comment accomplished what Daniel Burton's admonition had +been quite powerless to bring about. Mrs. Colebrook stopped sobbing at +once, and drew herself somewhat haughtily erect. + +"And, pray, who is this?" she demanded, looking from one to the other. + +"Well, 'this' happens to be the hired girl, an' she's got some +biscuits in the oven," explained Susan crisply. "If you'll be so good, +ma'am, I'll show you upstairs to your room." + +"Daniel!" appealed Mrs. Colebrook, plainly aghast. + +But her brother, with a helpless gesture, had turned away, and Susan, +bag in hand, was already halfway up the stairs. With heightened color +and a muttered "Impertinence!" Mrs. Colebrook turned and followed +Susan to the floor above. + +A little way down the hall Susan threw open a door. + +"I swept, but I didn't have no time to dust," she announced as she put +down the bag. "There's a duster in that little bag there. Don't lock +the door. Somethin' ails it. If you do you'll have to go out the +window down a ladder. There's towels in the top drawer, an' you'll +have to fill the pitcher every day, 'cause there's a crack an' it +leaks, an' you can't put in the water only to where the crack is. Is +there anything more you want?" + +"Thank you. If you'll kindly take me to Master Keith's room, that will +be all that I require," answered Mrs. Colebrook frigidly, as she +unpinned her hat and laid that on top of her coat on the bed. + +"All right, ma'am. He's a whole lot better. He's been up an' dressed +to-day, but he's gone back to bed now. His room is right down here, +jest across the hall," finished Susan, throwing wide the door. + +There was a choking cry, a swift rush of feet, then Mrs. Colebrook, on +her knees, was sobbing at the bedside. + +"Oh, Keithie, Keithie, my poor blind boy! What will you do? How will +you ever live? Never to see again, never to see again! Oh, my poor +boy, my poor blind boy!" + +Susan, at the door, flung both hands above her head, then plunged down +the stairs. + +"Fool! FOOL! FOOL!" she snarled at the biscuits in the oven. "Don't +you know ANYTHING?" Yet the biscuits in the oven were puffing up and +browning beautifully, as the best of biscuits should. + +When Susan's strident call for supper rang through the hall, Mrs. +Colebrook was with her brother in the studio. She had been bemoaning +and bewailing the cruel fate that had overtaken "that dear boy," and +had just asked for the seventh time how he could stand it, when from +the hall below came: + + "Supper's ready, supper's ready, + Hurry up or you'll be late. + Then you'll sure be cross an' heady, + If there's nothin' left to ate." + +"Daniel, what in the world is the meaning of that?" she interrupted +sharply. + +"That? Oh, that is Susan's--er--supper bell," shrugged the man, with a +little uneasy gesture. + +"You mean that you've heard it before?--that that is her usual method +of summoning you to your meals?" + +"Y-yes, when she's good-natured," returned the man, with a still more +uneasy shifting of his position. "Come, shall we go down?" + +"DANIEL! And you stand it?" + +"Oh, come, come! You don't understand--conditions here. Besides, I've +tried to stop it." + +"TRIED to stop it!" + +"Yes. Oh, well, try yourself, if you think it's so easy. I give you my +full and free permission. Try it." + +"TRY it! I shan't TRY anything of the sort. I shall STOP it." + +"Humph!" shrugged the man. "Oh, very well, then. Suppose we go down." + +"But what does that poor little blind boy eat? How can he eat--anything?" + +"Why, I--I don't know." The man gave an irritably helpless gesture. +"The nurse--she used to--You'll have to ask Susan. She'll know." + +"Susan! That impossible woman! Daniel, how DO you stand her?" + +Daniel Burton shrugged his shoulders again. Then suddenly he gave a +short, grim laugh. + +"I notice there are some things that have to be stood," he observed, +so exactly in imitation of Susan that it was a pity only Mrs. Nettie +Colebrook's unappreciative ears got the benefit of it. + +In the dining-room a disapproving Susan stood by the table. + +"I thought you wasn't never comin'. The hash is gettin' cold." + +Mrs. Colebrook gasped audibly. + +"Yes, yes, I know," murmured Mr. Burton conciliatingly. "But we're +here now, Susan." + +"What will Master Keith have for his supper?" questioned Mrs. +Colebrook, lifting her chin a little. + +"He's already had his supper, ma'am. I took it up myself." + +"What was it?" Mrs. Colebrook asked the question haughtily, +imperiously. + +Susan's eyes grew cold like steel. + +"It was what he asked for, ma'am, an' he's ate it. Do you want your +tea strong or weak, ma'am?" + +Mrs. Colebrook bit her lip. + +"I'll not take any tea at all," she said coldly. "And, Susan!" + +"Yes, ma'am." Susan turned, her hand on the doorknob. + +"Hereafter I will take up Master Keith's meals myself. He is in my +charge now." + +There was no reply--in words. But the dining-room door after Susan +shut with a short, crisp snap. + +After supper Mrs. Colebrook went out into the kitchen. + +"You may prepare oatmeal and dry toast and a glass of milk for Master +Keith to-morrow morning, Susan. I will take them up myself." + +"He won't eat 'em. He don't like 'em--not none of them things." + +"I think he will if I tell him to. At all events, they are what he +should eat, and you may prepare them as I said." + +"Very well, ma'am." + +Susan's lips came together in a thin, white line, and Mrs. Colebrook +left the kitchen. + +Keith did not eat his toast and oatmeal the next morning, though his +aunt sat on the edge of the bed, called him her poor, afflicted, +darling boy, and attempted to feed him herself with a spoon. + +Keith turned his face to the wall and said he didn't want any +breakfast. Whereupon his aunt sighed, and stroked his head; and Keith +hated to have his head stroked, as Susan could have told her. + +"Of course, you don't want any breakfast, you poor, sightless lamb," +she moaned. "And I don't blame you. Oh, Keithie, Keithie, when I see +you lying there like that, with your poor useless eyes--! But you must +eat, dear, you must eat. Now, come, just a weeny, teeny mouthful to +please auntie!" + +But Keith turned his face even more determinedly to the wall, and +moved his limbs under the bed clothes in a motion very much like a +kick. He would have nothing whatever to do with the "weeny, teeny +mouthfuls," not even to please auntie. And after a vain attempt to +remove his tortured head, entirely away from those gently stroking +fingers, he said he guessed he would get up and be dressed. + +"Oh, Keithie, are you well enough, dear? Are you sure you are strong +enough? I'm sure you must be ill this morning. You haven't eaten a bit +of breakfast. And if anything should happen to you when you were in MY +care--" + +"Of course I'm well enough," insisted the boy irritably. + +"Then I'll get your clothes, dear, and help you dress, if you will be +careful not to overdo." + +"I don't want any help." + +"Why, Keithie, you'll HAVE to have some one help you. How do you +suppose your poor blind eyes are going to let you dress yourself all +alone, when you can't see a thing? Why, dear child, you'll have to +have help now about everything you do. Now I'll get your clothes. +Where are they, dear? In this closet?" + +"I don't know. I don't want 'em. I--I've decided I don't want to get +up, after all." + +"You ARE too tired, then?" + +"Yes, I'm too tired." And Keith, with another spasmodic jerk under the +bedclothes, turned his face to the wall again. + +"All right, dear, you shan't. That's the better way, I think myself," +sighed his aunt. "I wouldn't have you overtax yourself for the world. +Now isn't there anything, ANYTHING I can do for you?" + +And Keith said no, not a thing, not a single thing. And his face was +still to the wall. + +"Then if you're all right, absolutely all right, I'll go out to walk +and get a little fresh air. Now don't move. Don't stir. TRY to go to +sleep if you can. And if you want anything, just ring. I'll put this +little bell right by your hand on the bed; and you must ring if you +want anything, ANYTHING. Then Susan will come and get it for you. +There, the bell's right here. See? Oh, no, no, you CAN'T see!" she +broke off suddenly, with a wailing sob. "Why will I keep talking to +you as if you could?" + +"Well, I wish you WOULD talk to me as if I could see," stormed Keith +passionately, sitting upright in bed and flinging out his arms. "I +tell you I don't want to be different! It's because I AM different +that I am so----" + +But his aunt, aghast, interrupted him, and pushed him back. + +"Oh, Keithie, darling, lie down! You mustn't thrash yourself around +like that," she remonstrated. "Why, you'll make yourself ill. There, +that's better. Now go to sleep. I'm going out before you can talk any +more, and get yourself all worked up again," she finished, hurrying +out of the room with the breakfast tray. + +A little later in the kitchen she faced Susan a bit haughtily. + +"Master Keith is going to sleep," she said, putting down the breakfast +tray. "I have left a bell within reach of his hand, and he will call +you if he wants anything. I am going out to get a little air." + +"All right, ma'am." Susan kept right on with the dish she was drying. + +"You are sure you can hear the bell?" + +"Oh, yes, my hearin' ain't repaired in the least, ma'am." Susan turned +her back and picked up another dish. Plainly, for Susan, the matter +was closed. + +Mrs. Colebrook, after a vexed biting of her lip and a frowning glance +toward Susan's substantial back, shrugged her shoulders and left the +kitchen. A minute later, still hatless, she crossed the yard and +entered the McGuires' side door. + +"Take the air, indeed!" muttered Susan, watching from the kitchen +window. "A whole lot of fresh air she'll get in Mis' McGuire's +kitchen!" + +With another glance to make sure that Mrs. Nettie Colebrook was safely +behind the McGuires' closed door, Susan crossed the kitchen and lifted +the napkin of the breakfast tray. + +"Humph!" she grunted angrily, surveying the almost untouched +breakfast. "I thought as much! But I was ready for you, my lady. Toast +an' oatmeal, indeed!" With another glance over her shoulder at the +McGuire side door Susan strode to the stove and took from the oven a +plate of crisply browned hash and a hot corn muffin. Two minutes +later, with a wonderfully appetizing-looking tray, she tapped at +Keith's door and entered the room. + +"Here's your breakfast, boy," she announced cheerily. + +"I didn't want any breakfast," came crossly from the bed. + +"Of course you didn't want THAT breakfast," scoffed Susan airily; "but +you just look an' see what I'VE brought you!" + +Look and see! Susan's dismayed face showed that she fully realized +what she had said, and that she dreaded beyond words its effect on the +blind boy in the bed. + +She hesitated, and almost dropped the tray in her consternation. But +the boy turned with a sudden eagerness that put to rout her dismay, +and sent a glow of dazed wonder to her face instead. + +"What HAVE you got? Let me see." He was sitting up now. +"Hash--and--johnny-cake!" he crowed, as she set the tray before him, +and he dropped his fingers lightly on the contents of the tray. "And +don't they smell good! I don't know--I guess I am hungry, after all." + +"Of course you're hungry!" Susan's voice was harsh, and she was +fiercely brushing back the tears. "Now, eat it quick, or I'll be sick! +Jest think what'll happen to Susan if that blessed aunt of yours comes +an' finds me feedin' you red-flannel hash an' johnny-cake! Now I'll be +up in ten minutes for the tray. See that you eat it up--every scrap," +she admonished him, as she left the room. + +Susan had found by experience that Keith ate much better when alone. +She was not surprised, therefore, though she was very much pleased--at +sight of the empty plates awaiting her when she went up for the tray +at the end of the ten minutes. + +"An' now what do you say to gettin' up?" she suggested cheerily, +picking up the tray from the bed and setting it on the table. + +"Can I dress myself?" + +"Of course you can! What'll you bet you won't do it five minutes +quicker this time, too? I'll get your clothes." + +Halfway back across the room, clothes in hand, she was brought to a +sudden halt by a peremptory: "What in the world is the meaning of +this?" It was Mrs. Nettie Colebrook in the doorway. + +"I'm gettin' Keith's clothes. He's goin' to get up." + +"But MASTER Keith said he did not wish to get up." + +"Changed his mind, maybe." The terseness of Susan's reply and the +expression on her face showed that the emphasis on the "Master" was +not lost upon her. + +"Very well, then, that will do. You may go. I will help him dress." + +"I don't want any help," declared Keith. + +"Why, Keithie, darling, of course you want help! You forget, dear, you +can't see now, and--" + +"Oh, no, I don't forget," cut in Keith bitterly. "You don't let me +forget a minute--not a minute. I don't want to get up now, anyhow. +What's the use of gettin' up? I can't DO anything!" And he fell back +to his old position, with his face to the wall. + +"There, there, dear, you are ill and overwrought," cried Mrs. +Colebrook, hastening to the bedside. "It is just as I said, you are +not fit to get up." Then, to Susan, sharply: "You may put Master +Keith's clothes back in the closet. He will not need them to-day." + +"No, ma'am, I don't think he will need them--now." Susan's eyes +flashed ominously. But she hung the clothes back in the closet, picked +up the tray, and left the room. + +Susan's eyes flashed ominously, indeed, all the rest of the morning, +while she was about her work; and at noon, when she gave the call to +dinner, there was a curious metallic incisiveness in her voice, which +made the call more strident than usual. + +It was when Mrs. Colebrook went into the kitchen after dinner for +Keith's tray that she said coldly to Susan: + +"Susan, I don't like that absurd doggerel of yours." + +"Doggerel?" Plainly Susan was genuinely ignorant of what she meant. + +"Yes, that extraordinary dinner call of yours. As I said before, I +don't like it." + +There was a moment's dead silence. The first angry flash in Susan's +eyes was followed by a demure smile. + +"Don't you? Why, I thought it was real cute, now." + +"Well, I don't. You'll kindly not use it any more, Susan," replied +Mrs. Colebrook, with dignity. + +Once again there was the briefest of silences, then quietly came +Susan's answer: + +"Oh, no, of course not, ma'am. I won't--when I work for you. There, +Mis' Colebrook, here's your tray all ready." + +And Mrs. Colebrook, without knowing exactly how it happened, found +herself out in the hall with the tray in her hands. + + + + +CHAPTER IX + +SUSAN SPEAKS HER MIND + + +"How's Keith?" + +It was Monday morning, and as usual Mrs. McGuire, seeing Susan in the +clothes-yard, had come out, ostensibly to hang out her own clothes, in +reality to visit with Susan while she was hanging out hers. + +"About as usual." Susan snapped out the words and a pillow-case with +equal vehemence. + +"Is he up an' dressed?" + +"I don't know. I hain't seen him this mornin'--but it's safe to say he +ain't." + +"But I thought he was well enough to be up an' dressed right along +now." + +"He is WELL ENOUGH--or, rather he WAS." Susan snapped open another +pillow-case and hung it on the line with spiteful jabs of two +clothespins. + +"Why, Susan, is he worse? You didn't say he was any worse. You said he +was about as usual." + +"Well, so he is. That's about as usual. Look a-here, Mis' McGuire," +flared Susan, turning with fierce suddenness, "wouldn't YOU be worse +if you wasn't allowed to do as much as lift your own hand to your own +head?" + +"Why, Susan, what do you mean? What are you talkin' about?" + +"I'm talkin' about Keith Burton an' Mis' Nettie Colebrook. I've GOT to +talk about 'em to somebody. I'm that full I shall sunburst if I don't. +She won't let him do a thing for himself--not a thing, that woman +won't!" + +"But how can he do anything for himself, with his poor sightless +eyes?" demanded Mrs. McGuire. "I don't think I should complain, Susan +Betts, because that poor boy's got somebody at last to take proper +care of him." + +"But it AIN'T takin' proper care of him, not to let him do things for +himself," stormed Susan hotly. "How's he ever goin' to 'mount to +anything--that's what I want to know--if he don't get a chance to +begin to 'mount? All them fellers--them fellers that was blind an' +wrote books an' give lecturin's an' made things--perfectly wonderful +things with their hands--how much do you s'pose they would have done +if they'd had a woman 'round who said, 'Here, let me do it; oh, you +mustn't do that, Keithie, dear!' every time they lifted a hand to +brush away a hair that was ticklin' their nose?" + +"Oh, Susan!" + +"Well, it's so. Look a-here, listen!" Susan dropped all pretense of +work now, and came close to the fence. She was obviously very much in +earnest. "That boy hain't been dressed but twice since that woman came +a week ago. She won't let him dress himself alone an' now he don't +want to be dressed. Says he's too tired. An' she says, 'Of course, +you're too tired, Keithie, dear!' An' there he lies, day in an' day +out, with his poor sightless eyes turned to the wall. He won't eat a +thing hardly, except what I snuggle up when she's out airin' herself. +He ain't keen on bein' fed with a spoon like a baby. No boy with any +spunk would be." + +"But can he feed himself?" + +"Of course he can--if he gets a chance! But that ain't all. He don't +want to be told all the time that he's different from other folks. He +can't forget that he's blind, of course, but he wants you to act as if +you forgot it. I know. I've seen him. But she don't forget it a +minute--not a minute. She's always cryin' an' wringin' her hands, an' +sighin', 'Oh, Keithie, Keithie, my poor boy, my poor blind boy!' till +it's enough to make a saint say, 'Gosh!'" + +"Well, that's only showin' sympathy, Susan," defended Mrs. McGuire. +"I'm sure she ought not to be blamed for that." + +"He don't want sympathy--or, if he does, he hadn't ought to have it." + +"Why, Susan Betts, I'm ashamed of you--grudgin' that poor blind boy +the comfort of a little sympathy! My John said yesterday--" + +"'T ain't sympathy he needs. Sympathy's a nice, soft little paw that +pats him to sleep. What he needs is a good sharp scratch that will +make him get up an' do somethin'." + +"Susan, how can you talk like that?" + +"'Cause somebody's got to." Susan's voice was shaking now. Her hands +were clenched so tightly on the fence pickets that the knuckles showed +white with the strain. "Mis' McGuire, there's a chance, maybe, that +that boy can see. There's somethin' they can do to his eyes, if he +gets strong enough to have it done." + +"Really? To see again?" + +"Maybe. There's a chance. They ain't sure. But they can't even TRY +till he gets well an' strong. An' how's he goin' to get well an' +strong lyin' on that bed, face to the wall? That's what I want to +know!" + +"Hm-m, I see," nodded Mrs. McGuire soberly. Then, with a sidewise +glance into Susan's face, she added: "But ain't that likely to +cost--some money?" + +"Yes, 't is." Susan went back to her work abruptly. With stern +efficiency she shook out a heavy sheet and hung it up. Stooping, she +picked up another one. But she did not shake out this. With the same +curious abruptness that had characterized her movements a few moments +before, she dropped the sheet back into the basket and came close to +the fence again. "Mis' McGuire, won't you please let me take a copy of +them two women's magazines that you take? That is, they--they do print +poetry, don't they?" + +"Why, y-yes, Susan, I guess they do. Thinkin' of sendin' 'em some of +yours?" The question was asked in a derision that was entirely lost on +Susan. + +"Yes, to get some money." It was the breathless, palpitating Susan +that Daniel Burton had seen a week ago, and like Daniel Burton on that +occasion, Mrs. McGuire went down now in defeat before it. + +"To--to get some money?" she stammered. + +"Yes--for Keith's eyes, you know," panted Susan. "An' when I sell +these, I'm goin' to write more--lots more. Only I've got to find a +place, first, of course, to sell 'em. An' I did send 'em off last +week. But they was jest cheap magazines; an' they sent a letter all +printed sayin' as how they regretted very much they couldn't accept +'em. Like enough they didn't have money enough to pay much for 'em, +anyway; but of course they didn't say that right out in so many words. +But, as I said, they wasn't anything but cheap magazines, anyway. +That's why I want yours, jest to get the addressin's of, I mean. +THEY'RE first-class magazines, an' they'll pay me a good price, I'm +sure. They'll have to, to get 'em! Why, Mis' McGuire, I've got to have +the money. There ain't nobody but me TO get it. An' you don't s'pose +we're goin' to let that boy stay blind all his life, do you, jest for +the want of a little money?" + +'"A little money'! It'll cost a lot of money, an' you know it, Susan +Betts," cried Mrs. McGuire, stirred into sudden speech. "An' the idea +of you tryin' to EARN it writin' poetry. For that matter, the idea of +your earnin' it, anyway, even if you took your wages." + +"Oh, I'd take my wages in a minute, if--" Susan stopped short. Her +face had grown suddenly red. "That is, I--I think I'd rather take the +poetry money, anyway," she finished lamely. + +But Mrs. McGuire was not to be so easily deceived. + +"Poetry money, indeed!" she scoffed sternly. "Susan Betts, do you know +what I believe? I believe you don't GET any wages. I don't believe +that man pays you a red cent from one week's end to the other. Now +does he? You don't dare to answer!" + +Susan drew herself up haughtily. But her face was still very red. + +"Certainly I dare to answer, Mis' McGuire, but I don't care to. What +Mr. Burton pays me discerns him an' me an' I don't care to discourse +it in public. If you'll kindly lend me them magazines I asked you for +a minute ago, I'll be very much obliged, an' I'll try to retaliate in +the same way for you some time, if I have anything you want." + +"Oh, good lan', Susan Betts, if you ain't the beat of 'em!" ejaculated +Mrs. McGuire. "I'd like to shake you--though you don't deserve a +shakin', I'll admit. You deserve--well, never mind. I'll get the +magazines right away. That's the most I CAN do for you, I s'pose," she +flung over her shoulder, as she hurried into the house. + + + + +CHAPTER X + +AND NETTIE COLEBROOK SPEAKS HERS + + +Mrs. Colebrook had been a member of the Burton household a day less +than two weeks when she confronted her brother in the studio with this +terse statement: + +"Daniel, either Susan or I leave this house tomorrow morning. You can +choose between us." + +"Nonsense, Nettie, don't be a fool," frowned the man. "You know very +well that we need both you and Susan. Susan's a trial, I'll admit, in +a good many ways; but I'll wager you'd find it more of a trial to get +along without her, and try to do her work and yours, too." + +"Nobody thought of getting along without SOMEBODY," returned Mrs. +Colebrook, with some dignity. "I merely am asking you to dismiss Susan +and hire somebody else--that is, of course, if you wish me to stay. +Change maids, that's all." + +The man made an impatient gesture. + +"All, indeed! Very simple, the way you put it. But--see here, Nettie, +this thing you ask is utterly out of the question. You don't +understand matters at all." + +"You mean that you don't intend to dismiss Susan?" + +"Yes, if you will have it put that way--just that." + +"Very well. Since that is your decision I shall have to govern myself +accordingly, of course. I will see you in the morning to say good-bye." +And she turned coldly away. + +"What do you mean by that?" + +"Why, that I am going home, of course--since you think more of having +that impossible, outrageously impertinent servant girl here than you +do me." Mrs. Colebrook was nearing the door how. + +"Shucks! You know better than that! Come, come, if you're having any +trouble with Susan, settle it with the girl herself, won't you? Don't +come to me with it. You KNOW how I dislike anything like this." + +At the door Mrs. Colebrook turned back suddenly with aggressive +determination. + +"Yes, I do know. You dislike anything that's disagreeable. You always +have, from the time when you used to run upstairs to the attic and let +us make all the explanations to pa and ma when something got lost or +broken. But, see here, Daniel Burton, you've GOT to pay attention to +this. It's your son, and your house, and your maid. And you shall +listen to me." + +"Well, well, all right, go ahead," sighed the man despairingly, +throwing himself back in his chair. "What is the trouble? What is it +that Susan does that annoys you so?" + +"What does she do? What doesn't she do?" retorted Mrs. Colebrook, +dropping herself wearily into a chair facing her brother. "In the +first place, she's the most wretchedly impertinent creature I ever +dreamed of. It's always 'Keith' instead of 'Master Keith,' and I +expect every day it'll be 'Daniel' and 'Nettie' for you and me. She +shows no sort of respect or deference in her manner or language, +and--well, what are you looking like that for?" she interrupted +herself aggrievedly. + +"I was only thinking--or rather I was TRYING to think of Susan--and +deference," murmured the man dryly. + +"Yes, that's exactly it," Mrs. Colebrook reproved him severely. +"You're laughing. You've always laughed, I suspect, at her outrageous +behavior, and that's why she's so impossible in every way. Why, Daniel +Burton, I've actually heard her refuse--REFUSE to serve you with +something to eat that you'd ordered." + +"Oh, well, well, what if she has? Very likely there was something we +had to eat up instead, to keep it from spoiling. Susan is very +economical, Nettie." + +"I dare say--at times, when it suits her to be so, especially if she +can assert her authority over you. Why, Daniel, she's a perfect tyrant +to you, and you know it. She not only tells you what to eat, but what +to wear, and when to wear it--your socks, your underclothes. Why, +Daniel, she actually bosses you!" + +"Yes, yes; well, never mind," shrugged the man, a bit irritably. +"We're talking about how she annoys YOU, not me, remember." + +"Well, don't you suppose it annoys me to see my own brother so +completely under the sway of this serving-maid? And such a maid! +Daniel, will you tell me where she gets those long words of hers that +she mixes up so absurdly?" + +Daniel Burton laughed. + +"Susan lived with Professor Hinkley for ten years before she came to +me. The Hinkleys never used words of one or two syllables when they +could find one of five or six that would do just as well. Susan loves +long words." + +"So I should judge. And those ridiculous rhymes of hers--did she learn +those, also, from Professor Hinkley?" queried Mrs. Colebrook. "And as +for that atrocious dinner-call of hers, it's a disgrace to any +family--a positive disgrace!" + +"Well, well, why don't you stop her doing it, then?" demanded Daniel +Burton, still more irritably. "Go to HER, not me. Tell her not to." + +"I have." + +The tone of her voice was so fraught with meaning that the man looked +up sharply. + +"Well?" + +"She said she wouldn't do it--when she worked for me." + +Daniel Burton gave a sudden chuckle. + +"I can imagine just how she'd say that," he murmured appreciatively. + +"Daniel Burton, are you actually going to abet that girl in her +wretched impertinence?" demanded Mrs. Colebrook angrily. "I tell you I +will not stand it! Something has got to be done. Why, she even tries +to interfere with the way I take care of your son--presumes to give me +counsel and advice on the subject, if you please. Dares to criticize +me--ME! Daniel Burton, I tell you I will not stand it. You MUST give +that woman her walking papers. Why, Daniel, I shall begin to think she +has hypnotized you--that you're actually afraid of her!" + +Was it the scorn in her voice? Or was it that Daniel Burton's +endurance had snapped at this last straw? Whatever it was, the man +leaped to his feet, threw back his shoulders, and thrust his hands +into his pockets. + +"Nettie, look here. Once for all let us settle this matter. I tell you +I cannot dismiss Susan; and I mean what I say when I use the words +'can not.' I literally CAN NOT. To begin with, she's the kindest-hearted +creature in the world, and she's been devotion itself all +these years since--since Keith and I have been alone. But even if I +could set that aside, there's something else I can't overlook. I--I +owe Susan considerable money." + +"You owe her--MONEY?" + +"Yes, her wages. She has not had them for some time. I must owe her +something like fifty or sixty dollars. You see, we--we have had some +very unusual and very heavy expenses, and I have overdrawn my +annuity--borrowed on it. Susan knew this and insisted on my letting +her wages go on, for the present. More than that, she has refused a +better position with higher wages--I know that. The pictures I had +hoped to sell--"He stopped, tried to go on, failed obviously to +control his voice; then turned away with a gesture more eloquent than +any words could have been. + +Mrs. Colebrook stared, frowned, and bit her lip. Nervously she tapped +her foot on the floor as she watched with annoyed eyes her brother +tramping up and down, up and down, the long, narrow room. Then +suddenly her face cleared. + +"Oh, well, that's easily remedied, after all." She sprang to her feet +and hurried from the room. Almost immediately she was back--a roll of +bills in her hand. "There, I thought I had enough money to do it," she +announced briskly as she came in. "Now, Daniel, I'LL pay Susan her +back wages." + +"Indeed you will not!" The man wheeled sharply, an angry red staining +his cheeks. + +"Oh, but Daniel, don't you see?--that'll simplify everything. She'll +be working for ME, then, and I--" + +"But I tell you I won't have--" interrupted the man, then stopped +short. Susan herself stood in the doorway. + +"I guess likely you was talkin' so loud you didn't hear me call you to +dinner," she was saying. "I've called you two times already. If you +want anything fit to eat you'd better come quick. It ain't gettin' any +fitter, waitin'." + +"Susan!" Before Susan could turn away, Mrs. Colebrook detained her +peremptorily." Mr. Burton tells me that he owes you for past wages. +Now--" + +"NETTIE!" warned the man sharply. + +But with a blithe "Nonsense, Daniel, let me manage this!" Mrs. +Colebrook turned again to Susan. The man, not unlike the little Daniel +of long ago who fled to the attic, shrugged his shoulders with a +gesture of utter irresponsibility, turned his back and walked to the +farther side of the room. + +"Susan," began Mrs. Colebrook again, still blithely, but with just a +shade of haughtiness, "my brother tells me your wages are past due; +that he owes you at least fifty dollars. Now I'm going to pay them for +him, Susan. In fact, I'm going to pay you sixty dollars, so as to be +sure to cover it. Will that be quite satisfactory?" + +Susan stared frankly. + +"You mean ME--take money from you, ma'am,--to pay my back wages?" she +asked. + +"Yes." + +"But--" Susan paused and threw a quick glance toward the broad back of +the man at the end of the room. Then she turned resolutely to Mrs. +Colebrook, her chin a little higher than usual. "Oh, no, thank you. I +ain't needin' the money, Mis' Colebrook, an' I'd ruther wait for Mr. +Burton, anyway," she finished cheerfully, as she turned to go. + +"Nonsense, Susan, of COURSE you need the money. Everybody can make use +of a little money, I guess. Surely, there's SOMETHING you want." + +With her hand almost on the doorknob Susan suddenly whisked about, her +face alight. + +"Oh, yes, yes, I forgot, Mis' Colebrook," she cried eagerly. "There is +somethin' I want; an' I'll take it, please, an' thank you kindly." + +"There, that's better," nodded Mrs. Colebrook. "And I've got it right +here, so you see you don't have to wait, even a minute," she smiled, +holding out the roll of bills. + +Still with the eager light on her face, Susan reached for the money. + +"Thank you, oh, thank you! An' it will go quite a ways, won't it?--for +Keith, I mean. The--" But with sudden sharpness Mrs. Colebrook +interrupted her. + +"Susan, how many times have I told you to speak of my nephew as +'Master Keith'? Furthermore, I shall have to remind you once more that +you are trying to interfere altogether too much in his care. In fact, +Susan, I may as well speak plainly. For some time past you have failed +to give satisfaction. You are paid in full now, I believe, with some +to spare, perhaps. You may work the week out. After that we shall no +longer require your services." + +The man at the end of the room wheeled sharply and half started to +come forward. Then, with his habitual helpless gesture, he turned back +to his old position. + +Susan, her face eloquent with amazed unbelief, turned from one to the +other. + +"You mean--you don't mean--Mis' Colebrook, be you tryin' to--dismissal +me?" + +Mrs. Colebrook flushed and bit her lip. + +"I am dismissing you--yes." + +Once more Susan, in dazed unbelief, looked from one to the other. Her +eyes dwelt longest on the figure of the man at the end of the room. + +"Mr. Burton, do you want me to go?" she asked at last. + +The man turned irritably, with a shrug, and a swift outflinging of his +hands. + +"Of course, I don't want you to go, Susan. But what can I do? I have +no money to pay you, as you know very well. I have no right to keep +you--of course--I should advise you to go." And he turned away again. + +Susan's face cleared. + +"Pooh! Oh, that's all right then," she answered pleasantly. "Mis' +Colebrook, I'm sorry to be troublin' you, but I shall have to give +back that 'ere notice. I ain't goin'." + +Once again Mrs. Colebrook flushed and bit her lip. + +"That will do, Susan. You forget. You're not working for Mr. Burton +now. You're working for me." + +"For YOU?" + +"Certainly. Didn't I just pay you your wages for some weeks past?" + +Susan's tight clutch on the roll of bills loosened so abruptly that +the money fell to the floor. But at once Susan stooped and picked it +up. The next moment she had crossed the room and thrust the money into +Mrs. Colebrook's astonished fingers. + +"I don't want your money, Mis' Colebrook--not on them terms, even for +Keith. I know I hain't earned any the other way, yet, but I hain't +tried all the magazines. There's more--lots more." Her voice faltered, +and almost broke. "I'll do it yet some way, you see if I don't. But I +won't take this. Why, Mis' Colebrook, do you think I'd leave NOW, with +that poor boy blind, an' his father so wrought up he don't have even +his extraordinary common sense about his flannels an' socks an' what +to eat, an' no money to pay the bills with, either? An' him bein' +pestered the life out of him with them intermittent, dunnin' grocers +an' milkmen? Well, I guess not! You couldn't hire me to go, Mis' +Colebrook." + +"Daniel, are you going to stand there and permit me to be talked to +like this?" appealed Mrs. Colebrook. + +"What can I do?" (Was there a ghost of a twinkle in Daniel Burton's +eyes as he turned with a shrug and a lift of his eyebrows?) "If YOU +haven't the money to hire her--" But Mrs. Colebrook, with an indignant +toss of her head, had left the room. + +"Mr. Burton!" Before the man could speak Susan had the floor again. +"Can't you do somethin', sir? Can't you?" + +"Do something, Susan?" frowned the man. + +"Yes, with your sister," urged Susan. "I don't mean because she's so +haughty an' impious. I can stand that. It's about Keith I'm talkin' +about. Mr. Burton, Keith won't never get well, never, so's he can have +that operator on his eyes, unless he takes some exercise an' gets his +strength back. The nurse an' the doctor--they both said he wouldn't." + +"Yes, yes, I know, Susan," fumed the man impatiently, beginning to +pace up and down the room. "And that's just what we're trying to +do--get his strength back." + +"But he ain't--he won't--he can't," choked Susan feverishly. "Mr. +Burton, I KNOW you don't want to talk about it, but you've got to. I'm +all Keith's got to look out for him." The father of Keith gave an +inarticulate gasp, but Susan plunged on unheeding. "An' he'll never +get well if he ain't let to get up an' stand an' walk an' eat an' sit +down himself. But Mis' Colebrook won't let him. She won't let him do +anything. She keeps sayin', 'Don't do it, oh, don't do it,' all the +time,--when she ought to say, 'Do it, do it, do it!' Mr. Burton, +cryin' an' wringin' your hands an' moanin', 'Oh, Keithie, darling!' +won't make a boy grow red blood an' make you feel so fine you want to +knock a man down! Mr. Burton, I want you to tell that woman to let me +take care of that boy for jest one week--ONE WEEK, an' her not to come +near him with her snivelin' an'--" + +But Daniel Burton, with two hands upflung, and a head that ducked as +if before an oncoming blow, had rushed from the room. For the second +time that day Daniel Burton had fled--to the attic. + + + + +CHAPTER XI + +NOT PATS BUT SCRATCHES + + +Mrs. Colebrook went home the next day. She wore the air of an injured +martyr at breakfast. She told her brother that, of course, if he +preferred to have an ignorant servant girl take care of his poor +afflicted son, she had nothing to say; but that certainly he could not +expect HER to stay, too, especially after being insulted as she had +been. + +Daniel Burton had remonstrated feebly, shrugged his shoulders and +flung his arms about in his usual gestures of impotent annoyance. + +Susan, in the kitchen, went doggedly about her work, singing, +meanwhile, what Keith called her "mad" song. When Susan was +particularly "worked up" over something, "jest b'ilin' inside" as she +expressed it, she always sang this song--her own composition, to the +tune of "When Johnny Comes Marching Home": + + "I've taken my worries, an' taken my woes, + I have, I have, + An' shut 'em up where nobody knows, + I have, I have. + I chucked 'em down, that's what I did, + An' now I'm sittin' upon the lid, + An' we'll all feel gay when Johnny comes marchin' home. + I'm sittin' upon the lid, I am, + Hurrah! Hurrah! + + I'm tryin' to be a little lamb, + Hurrah! Hurrah! + But I'm feelin' more like a great big slam + Than a nice little peaceful woolly lamb, + But we'll all feel gay when Johnny comes marchin' home." + +When Daniel Burton, this morning, therefore, heard Susan singing this +song, he was in no doubt as to Susan's state of mind--a fact which +certainly did not add to his own serenity. + +Upstairs, Keith, wearily indifferent as to everything that was taking +place about him, lay motionless as usual, his face turned toward the +wall. + +And at ten o'clock Mrs. Colebrook went. Five minutes later Daniel +Burton entered the kitchen--a proceeding so extraordinary that Susan +broke off her song in the middle of a "Hurrah" and grew actually pale. + +"What is it?--KEITH? Is anything the matter with Keith?" she faltered. + +Ignoring her question the man strode into the room. + +"Well, Susan, this time you've done it," he ejaculated tersely. + +"Done it--to Keith--ME? Why, Mr. Burton, what do you mean? Is +Keith--worse?" chattered Susan, with dry lips. "It was only a little +hash I took up. He simply won't eat that oatmeal stuff, an'--" + +"No, no, I don't mean the hash," interrupted the man irritably. "Keith +is all right--that is, he is just as he has been. It's my sister, Mrs. +Colebrook. She's gone." + +"Gone--for good?" + +"Yes, she's gone home." + +"Glory be!" The color came back to Susan's face in a flood, and frank +delight chased the terror from her eyes. "Now we can do somethin' +worthwhile." + +"I reckon you'll find you have to do something, Susan. You know very +well I can't afford to hire a nurse--now." + +"I don't want one." + +"But there's all the other work, too." + +"Work! Why, Mr. Burton, I won't mind a little work if I can have that +blessed boy all to myself with no one to feed him oatmeal mush with a +spoon, an' snivel over him. You jest wait. The first elemental thing +is to learn him self-defiance, so he can do things for himself. Then +he'll begin to get his health an' strength for the operator." + +"You're forgetting the money, Susan. It costs money for that." + +Susan's face fell. + +"Yes, sir, I know." She hesitated, then went on, her color deepening. +"An' I hain't sold--none o' them poems yet. But there's other +magazines, a whole lot of 'em, that I hain't tried. Somebody's sure to +take 'em some time." + +"I'm glad your courage is still good, Susan; but I'm afraid the dear +public is going to appreciate your poems about the way it does--my +pictures," shrugged the man bitterly, as he turned and left the room. + +Not waiting to finish setting her kitchen in order, Susan ran up the +back stairs to Keith's room. + + "Well, your aunt is gone, an' I'm on, + An' here we are together. + We'll chuck our worries into pawn, + An' how do you like the weather?" + +she greeted him gayly. "How about gettin' up? Come on! Such a lazy +boy! Here it is away in the middle of the forenoon, an' you abed like +this!" + +But it was not to be so easy this time. Keith was not to be cajoled +into getting up and dressing himself even to beat Susan's record. +Steadfastly he resisted all efforts to stir him into interest or +action; and a dismayed, disappointed Susan had to go downstairs in +acknowledged defeat. + +"But, land's sake, what could you expect?" she muttered to herself, +after a sorrowful meditation before the kitchen fire. "You can't put a +backbone into a jellyfish by jest showin' him the bone--an' that's +what his aunt has made him--a flappy, transparallel jellyfish. Drat +her! But I ain't goin' to give up. Not much I ain't!" And Susan +attacked the little kitchen stove with a vigor that would have brought +terror to the clinkers of a furnace fire pot. + +Susan did not attempt again that day to get Keith up and dressed; and +she gave him his favorite "pop-overs" for supper with a running fire +of merry talk and jingles that contained never a reference to the +unpleasant habit of putting on clothes, But the next morning, after +she had given Keith his breakfast (not of toast and oatmeal) she +suggested blithely that he get up and be dressed. When he refused she +tried coaxing, mildly, then more strenuously. When this failed she +tried to sting his pride by telling him she did not believe he could +get up now, anyhow, and dress himself. + +"All right, Susan, let it go that I can't. I don't want to, anyhow," +sighed the boy with impatient weariness. "Say, can't you let a fellow +alone?" + +Susan drew a long breath and held it suspended for a moment. She had +the air of one about to make a dreaded plunge. + +"No, I can't let you alone, Keith," she replied, voice and manner now +coldly firm. + +"Why not? What's the use when I don't want to get up?" + +"How about thinkin' for once what somebody else wants, young man?" +Susan caught her breath again, and glanced furtively at the +half-averted face on the pillow. Then doggedly she went on. "Maybe you +think I hain't got anything to do but trespass up an' down them stairs +all day waitin' on you, when you are perfectly capacious of waitin' on +yourself SOME." + +"Why, SUSAN!" There was incredulous, hurt amazement in the boy's +voice; but Susan was visibly steeling herself against it. + +"What do you think?--that I'm loafin' all day, an' your aunt gone now, +an' me with it all on my hands?" she demanded, her stony gaze +carefully turned away from the white face on the pillow. "An' to have +to keep runnin' up here all the mornin' when I've got to do the +dishes, an' bake bread, an' make soap, an'--" + +"If you'll get my clothes, Susan, I'll get up," said Keith very +quietly from the bed. + +And Susan, not daring to unclose her lips, wrested the garments from +the hooks, dropped them on to the chair by the bed, and fled from the +room. But she had not reached the hall below when the sobs shook her +frame. + +"An' me talkin' like that when I'd be willin' to walk all day on my +hands an' knees, if't would help him one little minute," she choked. + +Barely had Susan whipped herself into presentable shape again when +Keith's voice at the kitchen door caused her to face about with a +startled cry. + +"I'm downstairs, Susan." The boy's voice challenged hers for coldness +now. "I'll take my meals down here, after this." + +"Why, Keith, however in the world did you--" Then Susan pulled herself +up. "Good boy, Keith! That WILL make it lots easier," she said +cheerfully, impersonally, turning away and making a great clatter of +pans in the sink. + +But later, at least once every half-hour through that long forenoon, +Susan crept softly through the side hall to the half-open living-room +door, where she could watch Keith. She watched him get up and move +slowly along the side of the room, picking his way. She watched him +pause and move hesitating fingers down the backs of the chairs that he +encountered. But when she saw him stop and finger the books on the +little table by the window, she crept back to her kitchen--and rattled +still more loudly the pots and pans in the sink. + +Just before the noon meal Keith appeared once more at the kitchen +door. + +"Susan, would it bother you very much if I ate out here--with you?" he +asked. + +"With me? Nonsense! You'll eat in the dinin'-room with your dad, of +course. Why, what would he say to your eatin' out here with me?" + +"That's just it. It's dad. He'd like it, I'm sure," insisted the boy +feverishly. "You know sometimes I--I don't get any food on my fork, +when I eat, an' I have to--to feel for things, an' it--it must be +disagreeable to see me. An' you know he never liked disagreeable--" + +"Now, Keith Burton, you stop right where you are," interrupted Susan +harshly. "You're goin' to eat with your father where you belong. An' +do you now run back to the settin'-room. I've got my dinner to get." + +Keith had not disappeared down the hall, however, before Susan was +halfway up the back stairs. A moment later she was in the studio. + +"Daniel Burton, you're goin' to have company to dinner," she panted. + +"Company?" + +"Yes. Your son." "KEITH?" The man drew back perceptibly. + +"There, now, Daniel Burton, don't you go to scowlin' an' lookin' for a +place to run, just because you hate to see him feel 'round for what he +eats." + +"But, Susan, it breaks my heart," moaned the man, turning quite away. + +"What if it does? Ain't his broke, too? Can't you think of him a +little? Let me tell you this, Daniel Burton--that boy has more +consolation for your feelin's than you have for his, every time. +Didn't he jest come to me an' beg to eat with me, 'cause his dad +didn't like to see disagreeable things, an'--" + +The man wheeled sharply. + +"Did Keith--do that?" + +"He did, jest now, sir." + +"All right, Susan. I--I don't think you'll have to say--any more." + +And Susan, after a sharp glance into the man's half-averted face, said +no more. A moment later she had left the room. + +At dinner that day, with red eyes but a vivacious manner, she waited +on a man who incessantly talked of nothing in particular, and a boy +who sat white-faced and silent, eating almost nothing. + + + + +CHAPTER XII + +CALLERS FOR "KEITHIE" + + +And so inch by inch Susan fought her way, and inch by inch she gained +ground. Sometimes it was by coaxing, sometimes by scolding; perhaps +most often by taunts and dares, and shrewd appeals to Keith's pride. +But by whatever it was, each day saw some stride forward, some new +victory that Keith had won over his blindness, until by the end of the +week the boy could move about the house and wait upon himself with a +facility almost unbelievable when one remembered his listless +helplessness of a week before. + +Then one day there entered into the case a brand-new element, a dainty +element in white muslin and fluttering blue ribbons--Mazie Sanborn and +Dorothy Parkman. + +"We heard Keithie was lots better and up and dressed now," chirped +Mazie, when Susan answered her ring; "and so we've brought him some +flowers. Please can't we see him?" + +Susan hesitated. Susan had not forgotten Keith's feverish retreat from +Mazie's greeting called up to the veranda the month before. But then, +for that matter, had he not retreated from everything until she +determinedly took him in hand? And he must some time begin to mingle +with the world outside the four walls of his house! + +Why not now? What better chance could she hope to have for him to +begin than this? Where could she find two more charmingly alluring +ambassadors of that outside world than right here on the door-step +now? + +Susan's lips snapped together with a little defiant nod of her head, +then parted in a cordial smile. + +"Sure, you may see him," she cried, "an' it's glad that I am to have +you come! It'll do him good. Come in, come in!" And with only a +heightened color to show her trepidation as to the reception that +might be accorded her charges, she threw open the sitting-room door. +"Well, Keith, here's company come on purpose to see you. An' they've +brought you some flowers," she announced gayly. + +"No, no, Susan, I--I don't want to see them," stammered the boy. He +had leaped to his feet, a painful red flooding his face. + +"Well, I like that!" bridled Mazie, with playful indignation; "and +when Dorothy and I have taken all this trouble to come and--" + +"Is Dorothy here, too?" interrupted the boy sharply. + +"Yes, Keith I am--here." Dorothy was almost crying, and her voice +sounded harsh and unnatural. + +"And we brought you these," interposed Mazie brightly, crossing the +room to his side and holding out the flowers. Then, with a little +embarrassed laugh, as he did not take them, she thrust them into his +fingers. "Oh, I forgot. You can't see them, can you?" + +"Mazie!" remonstrated the half-smothered voice of Dorothy. + +But it was Susan who came promptly to the rescue. + +"Yes, an' ain't they pretty?" she cried, taking them from Keith's +unresisting fingers. "Here, let me put 'em in water, an' you two sit +down. I always did love coronation pinks," she declared briskly, as +she left the room. + +She was not gone long. Very quickly she came back, with the flowers in +a vase. Keith had dropped back into his chair; but he was plainly so +unwilling a host that Susan evidently thought best to assist him. She +set the vase on a little stand near Keith's chair, then dropped +herself on to the huge haircloth sofa near by. + +"My, but I don't mind settin' myself awhile," she smiled. "Guess I'm +tired." + +"I should think you would be." Mazie, grown suddenly a bit stiff and +stilted, was obviously trying to be very polite and "grown up." "There +must be an awful lot to do here. Mother says she don't see how you +stand it." + +"Pooh! Not so very much!" scoffed Susan, instantly on her guard. +"Keith here's gettin' so smart he won't let me do anything hardly for +him now." + +"Oh, but there must be a lot of things," began Mazie, "that he can't +do, and--" + +"Er--what a lovely big, sunny room," interrupted Dorothy hastily, so +hastily that Susan threw a sharp glance into her face to see if she +were really interrupting Mazie for a purpose. "I love big rooms." + +"Yes, so do I," chimed in Mazie. "And I always wanted to see the +inside of this house, too." + +"What for?" Keith's curiosity got the better of his vexed reticence, +and forced the question from his lips. + +"Oh, just 'cause I've heard folks say 'twas so wonderful--old, you +know, and full of rare old things, and there wasn't another for miles +around like it. But I don't see--That is," she corrected herself, +stumbling a little, "you probably don't keep them in this room, +anyway." + +"Why, they do, too," interfered Dorothy, with suddenly pink cheeks. +"This room is just full of the loveliest kind of old things, just like +the things father is always getting--only nicer. Now that, right there +in the corner, all full of drawers--We've got one almost just exactly +like that out home, and father just dotes on it. That IS a--a highboy, +isn't it?" she appealed to Susan. "And it is very old, isn't it?" + +"A highboy? Old? Lan' sakes, child," laughed Susan. "Maybe 'tis. I +ain't sayin' 'tisn't, though I'm free to confess I never heard it +called that. But it's old enough, if that's all it needs; it's old +enough to be a highMAN by this time, I reckon," chuckled Susan. "Mr. +Burton was tellin' me one day how it belonged to his great-grand-mother." + +"Kind of funny-looking, though, isn't it?" commented Mazie. + +"Father'd love it, so'd Aunt Hattie," avowed Dorothy, evidently not +slow to detect the lack of appreciation in Mazie's voice. "And I do, +too," she finished, with a tinge of defiance. + +Mazie laughed. + +"Well, all right, you may, for all I care," she retorted. Then to +Keith she turned with sudden disconcerting abruptness: "Say, Keith, +what do you do all day?" + +It was Susan who answered this. Indeed, it was Susan who answered a +good many of the questions during the next fifteen minutes. Some she +answered because she did not want Keith to answer them. More she +answered because Keith would not answer them. To tell the truth, Keith +was anything but a polite, gracious host. He let it be plainly +understood that he was neither pleased at the call nor interested in +the conversation. And the only semblance of eagerness in his demeanor +that afternoon was when his young visitors rose to go. + +In spite of Keith's worse than indifference, however, Susan was +convinced that this call, and others like it, were exactly what was +needed for Keith's best welfare and development. With all her skill +and artifice, therefore, she exerted herself to make up for Keith's +negligence. She told stories, rattled off absurd jingles, and laughed +and talked with each young miss in turn, determined to make the call +so great a success that the girls would wish to come again. + +When she had bowed them out and closed the door behind them, she came +back to Keith, intending to remonstrate with him for his very +ungracious behavior. But before she could open her lips Keith himself +had the floor. + +"Susan Betts," he began passionately, as soon as she entered the room, +"don't you ever let those girls in again. I won't have them. I WON'T +HAVE THEM, I tell you! + +"Oh, for shame, Keith!--and when they were so kind and thoughtful, +too!" + +"It wasn't kindness and thoughtfulness," resented the boy. "It was +spying out. They came to see how I took it. I know 'em. And that +Dorothy Parkman--I don't know WHY she came. She said long ago that she +couldn't bear--to look at 'em." + +"Look at them?" + +"Yes--blind folks. Her father is a big oculist--doctors eyes, you +know. She told me once. And she said she couldn't bear to look at +them; that--" + +"An eye doctor?--a big one?" Susan was suddenly excited, alert. + +"Yes, yes. And--" + +"Where's he live?" + +"I don't know. Where she does, I s'pose. I don't know where that is. +She's here most of the time, and--" + +"Is he a real big one?--a really, truly big one?" + +"Yes, yes, I guess so." Keith had fallen wearily back in his chair, +his strength spent. "Dad said he was one of the biggest in the +country. And of course lots of--of blind people go there, and she sees +them. Only she says she can't bear to see them, that she won't look at +them. And--and she shan't come here--she shan't, Susan, to look at me, +and--" + +But Susan was not listening now. With chin up-tilted and a new fire in +her eyes, she had turned toward the kitchen door. + +Two days later, on her way to the store, Susan spied Dorothy Parkman +across the street. Without hesitation or ceremony she went straight +across and spoke to her. + +"Is it true that your father is a big occultist, one of the biggest +there is?" she demanded. + +"A--what?" Dorothy frowned slightly. + +"Occultist--doctors folks' eyes, you know. Is he? I heard he was." + +"Oh! Y-yes--yes, he is." Miss Dorothy was giggling a bit now. + +"Then, listen!" In her eagerness Susan had caught the girl's sleeve +and held it. "Can't you get him to come on an' see you, right away, +quick? Don't he want to take you home, or--or something?" + +Dorothy laughed merrily. + +"Why, Susan, are you in such a hurry as all that to get rid of me? Did +I act so bad the other day that--" A sudden change crossed her face. +Her eyes grew soft and luminous. "Was it for--Keith that you wanted +father, Susan?" + +"Yes." Susan's eyes blurred, and her voice choked. + +"Well, then I'm glad to tell you he is coming by and by. He's coming +to take me home for Christmas. But--he isn't going to stay long." + +"That's all right--that's all right," retorted Susan, a little +breathlessly. "If he'd jest look at the boy's eyes an' tell if--if he +could fix 'em later. You see, we--we couldn't have it done now, 'cause +there ain't any money to pay. But we'll have it later. We'll sure have +it later, an' then--" + +"Of course he'll look at them," interrupted Dorothy eagerly. "He'll +love to, I know. He's always so interested in eyes, and new cases. +And--and don't worry about the other part--the money, you know," +nodded Dorothy, hurrying away then before Susan could protest. + +As it happened Keith was more "difficult" than usual that afternoon, +and Susan, thinking to rouse him from his lassitude, suddenly +determined to tell him all about the wonderful piece of good fortune +in store for him. + +"How'd you like to have that little Miss Dorothy's daddy see your +eyes, honey," she began eagerly, "an' tell--" + +"I wouldn't let him see them." Keith spoke coldly, decisively. + +"Oh, but he's one of the biggest occultists there is, an'--" + +"I suppose you mean 'oculist,' Susan," interrupted Keith, still more +coldly; "but that doesn't make any difference. I don't want him." + +"But, Keith, if he--" + +"I tell you I won't have him," snapped Keith irritably. + +"But you've got to have somebody, an' if he's the biggest!" All the +eager light had died out of Susan's face. + +"I don't care if he is the biggest, he's Dorothy Parkman's father, and +that's enough. I WON'T HAVE HIM!" + +"No, no; well, all right!" And Susan, terrified and dismayed, hurried +from the room. + +But though Susan was dismayed and terrified, she was far from being +subdued. In the kitchen she lifted her chin defiantly. + +"All right, Master Keith," she muttered to herself. "You can say what +you want to, but you'll have him jest the same--only you won't know +he's HIM. I'll jest tell him to call hisself another name for you. An' +some time I'll find out what there is behind that Dorothy Parkman +business. But 'tain't till Christmas, an' that's 'most two months off +yet. Time enough for trouble when trouble knocks at the door; an' till +it does knock, jest keep peggin' away." + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +FREE VERSE--A LA SUSAN + + +And persistently, systematically Susan did, indeed, keep "peggin' +away." No sooner had she roused Keith to the point of accomplishing +one task than she set for him another. No sooner could he pilot +himself about one room than she inveigled him into another. And when +he could go everywhere about the house she coaxed him out into the +yard. It was harder here, for Keith had a morbid fear of being stared +at. And only semi-occasionally would he consent at all to going out. + +It was then that with stern determination Susan sought Daniel Burton. + +"Look a-here, Daniel Burton," she accosted him abruptly, "I've done +all I can now, an' it's up to you." + +The man looked up, plainly startled. + +"Why, Susan, you don't mean--you aren't--GOING, are you?" + +"Goin' nothin'--shucks!" tossed Susan to one side disdainfully. "I +mean that Keith ain't goin' to get that good red blood he's needin' +sittin' 'round the house here. He's got to go off in the woods an' +walk an' tramp an' run an' scuff leaves. An' you've got to go with +him. I can't, can I?" + +The man shifted his position irritably. + +"Do you think that boy will let me lead him through the streets, +Susan? Well, I know he won't." + +"I didn't say 'lead him.' I said go WITH him. There's an awful lot of +difference between leadin' an' accommodatin'. We don't none of us like +to be led, but we don't mind goin' WITH folks 'most anywheres. Put +your arm into his an' walk together. He'll walk that way. I've tried +it. An' to see him you wouldn't know he was blind at all. Oh, yes, I +know you're hangin' back an' don't want to. I know you hate to see him +or be with him, 'cause it makes you KNOW what a terrible thing it is +that's come to you an' him. But you've got to, Daniel Burton. You an' +me is all he's got to stand between him an' utter misery. I can feed +his stomach an' make him do the metaphysical things, but it's you +that's got to feed his soul an' make him do the menial things." + +"Oh, Susan, Susan!" half groaned the man. There was a smile on his +lips, but there were tears in his eyes. + +"Well, it's so," argued Susan earnestly. "Oh, I read to him, of +course. I read him everything I can get hold of, especially about men +an' women that have become great an' famous an' extinguished, even if +they was blind or deaf an' dumb, or lame--especially blind. But I +can't learn him books, Mr. Burton. You've got to do that. You've got +to be eyes for him, an' he's got to go to school to you. Mr. +Burton,"--Susan's voice grew husky and unsteady,--"you've got a chance +now to paint bigger an' grander pictures than you ever did before, only +you won't be paintin' 'em on canvas backs. You'll be paintin' 'em on +that boy's soul, an' you'll be usin' words instead of them little +brushes." + +"You've put that--very well, Susan." It was the man who spoke +unsteadily, huskily, now. + +"I don't know about that, but I do know that them pictures you're +goin' to paint for him is goin' to be the makin' of him. Why, Mr. +Burton, we can't have him lazin' behind, 'cause when he does get back +his eyes we don't want him to be too far behind his class." + +"But what--if he doesn't ever get his eyes, Susan?" + +"Then he'll need it all the more. But he's goin' to get 'em, Mr. +Burton. Don't you remember? The nurse said if he got well an' strong +he could have somethin' done. I've got the doctor, an' all I need now +is the money. An'--an' that makes me think." She hesitated, growing +suddenly pink and embarrassed. Then resolutely she put her hand into +the pocket of her apron and pulled out two folded papers. + +"I was goin' to tell you about these, anyhow, so I might as well do it +now," she explained. "You know, them--them other poems didn't sell +much--there was only one went, an' the man wouldn't take that till +he'd made me promise he could print my letter, too, that I'd wrote +with it--jest as if that was worth anything!--but he only paid a +measly dollar anyhow." Susan's voice faltered a little, though her +chin was at a brave tilt. "An' I guess now I know the reason. Them +kind of poems ain't stylish no longer. Rhymes has gone out. +Everything's 'free verse' now. I've been readin' up about it. So I've +wrote some of 'em. They're real easy to do--jest lines chopped off +free an' easy, anywheres that it happens, only have some long, an' +some short, for notoriety, you know, like this." And she read: + +"A great big cloud + That was black + Came up + Out of the West. An' I knew + Then + For sure + That a storm was brewin'. + An' it brewed." + +"Now that was dead easy--anybody could see that. But it's kind of +pretty, I think, too, jest the same. Them denatured poems are always +pretty, I think--about trees an' grass an' flowers an' the sky, you +know. Don't you?" + +"Why, er--y-yes, of course," murmured the man faintly. + +"I tried a love poem next. I don't write them very often. They're so +common. You see 'em everywhere, you know. But I thought I would try +it--'twould be different, anyhow, in this new kind of verses. So I +wrote this: + + Oh, love of mine, + I love + Thee. + Thy hair is yellow like the + Golden squash. + Thy neck so soft + An' slender like a goose, + Is encompassed in filtered lace + So rich an' + Rare. + Thy eyes in thy pallid face like + Blueberries in a + Saucer of milk. + Oh, love of mine, + I love + Thee." + +"Have you sent--any of these away yet, Susan?" Daniel Burton was on +his feet now, his back carefully turned. + +"No, not yet; but I'm goin' to pretty quick, an' I guess them will +sell." Susan nodded happily, and smiled. But almost instantly her face +grew gravely earnest again. "But all the money in the world ain't +goin' to do no good Mr. Burton, unless we do our part, an' our part is +to get him well an' strong for that operator. Now I'm goin' to send +Keith in to you. I ain't goin' to TELL him he's goin' to walk with +you, 'cause if I did he wouldn't come. But I'm expectin' you to take +him, jest the same," she finished severely, as she left the room. + +Keith and his father went to walk. It was the first of many such +walks. Almost every one of these crisp November days found the two off +on a tramp somewhere. And because Daniel Burton was careful always to +accompany, never to lead, the boy's step gained day by day in +confidence and his face in something very like interest. And always, +for cold and stormy days, there were the books at home. + +Daniel Burton was not painting pictures--pigment pictures--these days. +His easel was empty. "The Woodland Path," long since finished, had +been sent away "to be sold." Most of Daniel Burton's paintings were +"sent away to be sold," so that was nothing new. What was new, +however, was the fact that no fresh canvas was placed on the easel to +take the place of the picture sent away. Daniel Burton had begun no +new picture. The easel, indeed, was turned face to the wall. And yet +Daniel Burton was painting pictures, wonderful pictures. His brushes +were words, his colors were the blue and gold and brown and crimson of +the wide autumn landscape, his inspiration was the hungry light on a +boy's face, and his canvas was the soul of the boy behind it. Most +assuredly Daniel Burton was giving himself now, heart and mind and +body, to his son. Even the lynx-eyed, alert Susan had no fault to +find. Daniel Burton, most emphatically, was "doing his part." + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + +A SURPRISE ALL AROUND + + +The week before Christmas Dorothy Parkman brought a tall, +dignified-looking man to the Burtons' shabby, but still beautiful, +colonial doorway. + +Dorothy had not seen Keith, except on the street, since her visit with +Mazie in October. Two or three times the girls had gone to the house +with flowers or fruit, but Keith had stubbornly refused to see them, +in spite of Susan's urgings. To-day Dorothy, with this evidently in +mind, refused Susan's somewhat dubious invitation to come in. + +"Oh, no, thank you, I'll not come in," she smiled. "I only brought +father, that's all. And--oh, I do hope he can do something," she +faltered unsteadily. And Susan saw that her eyes were glistening with +tears as she turned away. + +In the hall Susan caught the doctor's arm nervously. + +"Dr. Parkman, there's somethin'--" + +"My name is Stewart," interrupted the doctor. + +"What's that? What's that?" cried Susan, unconsciously tightening her +clasp on his arm. "Ain't you Dorothy Parkman's father?" + +"I'm her stepfather. She was nine when I married Mrs. Parkman, her +mother." + +"Then your name ain't Parkman, at all! Oh, glory be!" ejaculated Susan +ecstatically. "Well, if that ain't the luckiest thing ever!" + +"Lucky?" frowned the doctor, looking thoroughly mystified, and not +altogether pleased. + +Susan gave an embarrassed laugh. + +"There, now, if that ain't jest like me, to fly off on a tandem like +that, without a word of exploitation. It's jest that I'm so glad I +won't have to ask you to come under a resumed name." + +"Under a what, madam?" The doctor was looking positively angry now. +Moreover, with no uncertain determination, he was trying to draw +himself away from Susan's detaining fingers. + +"Oh, please, doctor, please, don't be mad!" Susan had both hands hold +of his arm now. "'Twas for Keith, an' I knew you'd be willin' to do +anything for him, when you understood, jest as I am. You see, I didn't +want him to know you was Dorothy's father," she plunged on +breathlessly, "an' so I was goin' to ask you to let me call you +somethin' else--not Parkman. An' then, when I found that you didn't +have to have a resumed name, that you was already somebody else--that +is, that you was really you, only Keith wouldn't know you was you, I +was so glad." + +"Oh, I see." The doctor was still frowning, though his lips were +twitching a little. "But--er--do you mind telling me why I can't be I? +What's the matter with Dorothy's father?" + +"Nothin' sir. It's jest a notion. Keith won't see Dorothy, nor Mazie, +nor none of 'em. He thinks they come jest to spy out how he looks an' +acts; an' he got it into his head that if you was Dorothy's father, he +wouldn't see you. He hates to be pitied an' stared at." + +"Oh, I see." A sympathetic understanding came into the doctor's eyes. +The anger was all gone now. "Very well. As it happens I'm really Dr. +Stewart. So you may call me that with all honesty, and we'll be very +careful not to let the boy know I ever heard of Dorothy Parkman. How +about the boy's father? Does he--know?" + +"Yes, sir. I told him who you was, an' that you was comin'; an' I told +him we wasn't goin' to let Keith know. An' he said 'twas absurd, an' +we couldn't help lettin' him know. But I told him I knew better an' +'twas all right." + +"Oh, you did!" The doctor was regarding Susan with a new interest in +his eyes. + +"Yes, an' 'tis, you see." + +"Where is Mr. Burton?" + +"In his studio--shut up. He'll see you afterwards. I told him he'd GOT +to do that." + +"Eh? What?" The doctor's eyes flew wide open. + +"See you afterwards. I told him he'd ought to be in the room with you, +when you was examplin' Keith's eyes. But I knew he wouldn't do that. +He never will do such-like things--makes him feel too bad. An' he +wanted ME to find out what you said. But I told him HE'D got to do +that. But, oh, doctor, I do hope--oh, please, please say somethin' +good if you can. An' now I'll take you in. It's right this way through +the sittin'-room." + +"By Jove, what a beauty!" Halfway across the living-room the doctor +had come to a pause before the mahogany highboy. + +"THAT?" + +"Yes, 'that'!" The whimsical smile in the doctor's eyes showed that he +was not unappreciative of the scorn in Susan's voice. "By George, it +IS a beauty! I've got one myself, but it doesn't compare with that, +for a minute. H-m! And that's not the only treasure you have here, I +see," he finished, his admiring gaze roving about the room. "We've got +some newer, better stuff in the parlor. These are awful old things in +here," apologized Susan. + +"Yes, I see they are--old things." The whimsical smile had come back +to the doctor's eyes as he followed Susan through the doorway. + +"Keith's upstairs in his room, an' I'm takin' you up the back way so's +Mr. Burton won't hear. He asked me to. He didn't want to know jest +exactly when you was here." + +"Mr. Burton must be a brave man," commented the doctor dryly. + +"He ain't--not when it comes to seein' disagreeable things, or folks +hurt," answered the literal Susan cheerfully. "But he'll see you all +right, when it's over." Her lips came together with a sudden grimness. + +The next moment, throwing open Keith's door, her whole expression +changed. She had eyes and thoughts but for the blind boy over by the +window. + +The doctor, too, obviously, by the keen, professional alertness that +transfigured his face at that moment, had eyes and thoughts but for +that same blind boy over by the window. + +"Well, Keith, here's Dr. Stewart to see you boy." + +"Dr.--Stewart?" Keith was on his feet, startled, uncertain. + +"Yes, Dr. Stewart.'" Susan repeated the name with clear emphasis. "He +was in town an' jest came up to look at you. He's a big, kind doctor, +dear, an' you'll like him, I know." At the door Susan turned to the +doctor. "An' when--when you're done, sir, if you'll jest come down +them stairs to the kitchen, please--TO THE KITCHEN," she repeated, +hurrying out before Keith could remonstrate. + +Down in the kitchen Susan took a pan of potatoes to peel--and when, +long hours later, after the doctor had come downstairs, had talked +with Mr. Burton, and had gone, Susan went to get those potatoes to +boil for dinner, she found that all but two of them had been peeled +and peeled and peeled, until there was nothing left but--peelings. + +Susan was peeling the next to the last potato when the doctor came +down to the kitchen. + +"Well?" She was on her feet instantly. + +The doctor's face was grave, yet his eyes were curiously alight. They +seemed to be looking through and beyond Susan. + +"I don't know. I THINK I have good news, but I'm not--sure." + +"But there's a chance?" + +"Yes; but-" There was a moment's silence; then, with an indrawing of +his breath, the doctor's soul seemed to come back from a long journey. +"I think I know what is the matter." The doctor was looking at Susan, +now, not through her. "If it's what I think it is, it's a very rare +disease, one we do not often find." + +"But could you--can you--is it possible to--to cure it?" + +"We can operate--yes; but it's six to half a dozen whether it's +successful or not. They've just about broken even so far--the cases +I've known about. But they've been interesting, most interesting." The +doctor was far away again. + +"But there's a chance; and if there is a chance I'd want to take it," +cried Susan. "Wouldn't you?" + +There was no answer. + +Susan hesitated, threw a hurried glance into the doctor's preoccupied +face, then hurried on again feverishly. + +"Doctor, there's somethin' I've got to--to speak to you about before +you see Mr. Burton. It--it--it'll cost an awful lot, I s'pose." + +There was no answer. + +Susan cleared her throat. + +"It--it'll cost an awful lot, won't it, doctor?" she asked in a louder +voice. + +"Eh? What? Cost? Oh, yes, yes; it is an expensive operation." The +doctor spoke unconcernedly. He merely glanced at Susan, then resumed +his fixed gaze into space. + +"Well, doctor." Susan cleared her throat again. This time she caught +hold of the doctor's sleeve as if to pull him bodily back to a +realizing sense of her presence. "About the money--we haven't got it. +An' that's what I wanted to speak to you about. Mr. Burton hain't got +any. He's already spent more'n he's got--part of next year's annual, I +mean. Some day he'll have more--a whole lot more--when Mis' Holworthy, +his third cousin, dies. 'Twas her husband that gave him the annual, +you understand, an' when she dies it'll come to him in a plump sum. +But 'tain't his now, an' 'course it won't be till she goes; an' +'course 'tain't for us to dodge her footsteps hopin' she'll jest +naturally stop walkin' some day--though I'm free to confess she has +lost most all her facilities, bein' deaf an' lame an' some blind; an' +I can't exactly see the harm in wishin' she had got 'em all back--in +Heaven, I mean. But 'course I don't say so to him. An' as I said +before, we hain't got money now--not any. + +"An'--an' his last pictures didn't sell any better than the others," +she went on a little breathlessly. "Then there was me--that is, I WAS +goin' to get some money; but--but, well MY pictures didn't sell, +either." She paused to wet her lips. "But I've thought it all out, an' +there's a way." + +"You--you'd have to have Keith with you, somewheres, wouldn't you?" + +"To operate? Oh, yes, yes." + +"A long time?" + +"Eh? What? Oh, yes, we would have to have him a long time, probably. +In fact, time is one of the very biggest factors in such cases--for +the after-treatment, you know. And we must have him where we can watch +him, of course." + +"Oh! Then that's all right, then. I can manage it fine," sighed Susan, +showing by the way her whole self relaxed how great had been the +strain. "Then I'll come right away to work for you." + +"To what?" The doctor suddenly came back to earth. + +"To work for you--in your kitchen, I mean," nodded Susan. "I'll send +Mr. Burton to his sister's, then I'll come to you, an' I'll come +impaired to stay till I've paid it up--every cent." + +"Good Heavens, woman!" ejaculated the man. "What are you talking +about?" + +"Oh, please, please don't say that I can't," besought Susan, her +fearful eyes on his perturbed face. "I'll work real well--truly I +will. An' I'm a real good cook, honest I am, when I have a +super-abundance to do it with--butter, an' eggs, an' nice roasts. An' I +won't bother you a mite with my poetry. I don't make it much now, +anyhow. An'--oh, doctor, you've GOT to let me do it; it's the only way +there is to p-pay." Her voice choked into silence. Susan turned her +back abruptly. Not even for Keith could Susan let any one see her cry. + +"Pay! And do you think you'd live long--" Just in time the doctor +pulled himself up short. Thrusting his hands into his pockets he took +a nervous turn about the kitchen; then sharply he wheeled about. "My +dear woman, let us talk no more about the money question. See here, I +shall be glad to take that boy into my charge and take care of him for +the sheer love of it--indeed, I shall!" + +"Do you mean without ANY pay?" Susan had drawn herself up haughtily. + +"Yes. So far as money goes--it is of no consequence, anyway. I'm glad--" + +"Thank you, but we ain't charitable folks, Dr. Stewart," cut in Susan +coldly. "Maybe it is infinitesimal to you whether we pay or not, but't +ain't to us. We don't want--" + +"But I tell you it's pay enough just to do it," interrupted the doctor +impatiently. "It's a very rare case, and I'm glad--" + +A door banged open. + +"Susan, hasn't that doctor--" a new voice cut in, then stopped short. + +The doctor turned to see a pallid-faced, blond-bearded man with +rumpled hair standing in the doorway. + +"Mr. Burton?" hazarded the doctor crisply. + +"Yes. And you-" + +"Dr. Stewart. And I'd like a little talk with you, please--if you can +talk sense." This last was added under his breath; but Daniel Burton +was not listening, in any case. He was leading the way to the studio. + +In the studio the doctor did not wait for questions, but plunged at +once into his story. + +"Without going into technical terms, Mr. Burton, I will say that your +son has a very rare trouble. There is only one known relief, and that +is a certain very delicate operation. Even with that, the chances are +about fifty-fifty that he regains his sight." + +"But there's a chance?" + +"Yes, there's a chance. And, anyway, it won't do any harm to try. It +is the only thing possible, and, if it fails--well, he'll only be +blind, as he is now. It must be done right away, however. Even now it +may be too late. And I may as well tell you, if it DOESN'T fail--there +is a strong probability of another long period of treatment and a +second operation, before there's a chance of ultimate success!" + +"Could--could that time be spent here?" Daniel Burton's lips had grown +a little white. + +"No. I should want the boy where I could see him frequently--with me, +in fact. And that brings me to what I was going to propose. With your +permission I will take the boy back with me next week to Chicago, and +operate at once. And let me say that from sheer interest in the case I +shall be glad to do this entirely without cost to you." + +"Thank you; but of course you must understand that I could not allow +that for a moment." A painful color had flamed into Daniel Burton's +face. + +"Nonsense! Don't be foolish, man. I tell you I'm glad to do it. It'll +be worth it to me--the rarity of the case--" + +"How much--would it cost?" interposed Daniel Burton peremptorily, with +an unsteadiness of voice that the doctor did not fail to read aright. + +"Why, man, alive, it would cost--" With his eyes on Daniel Burton's +sternly controlled face, the doctor came to an abrupt pause. Then, +turning, he began to tramp up and down the room angrily. "Oh, hang it +all, man, why can't you be sensible? I tell you I don't want any--" +Once again his tongue stopped. His feet, also, had come to an abrupt +pause. He was standing before an old colonial mirror. Then suddenly he +wheeled about. "By Jove, there IS something I want. If you'll sell me +two or three of these treasures of yours here, you will be more than +cancelling your debt, and--" + +"Thank you," interrupted the other coldly, but with a still deeper red +staining his face. "As I happen to know of the unsalability of these +pictures, however, I cannot accept your generosity there, either." + +"Pictures!" The doctor, turning puzzled eyes back to the mirror, saw +now that a large oil painting hung beside it on the wall. "I wasn't +talking about your pictures, man," he scoffed then. "I was looking at +that mirror there, and I'd like the highboy downstairs, if I could +persuade you to part with them, and--WOULD you be willing to part with +them?" + +"What do you think!" (So marvelous was the change, and so great was +the shining glory in Daniel Burton's face, that the doctor caught +himself actually blinking.) "Do you think there's anything, ANYTHING +that I wouldn't part with, if I thought I could give that boy a +chance? Make your own selection, doctor. I only hope you'll +want--really WANT--enough of them to amount to something." + +The doctor threw a keen glance into his face. + +"Amount to something! Don't you know the value of these things here?" + +Daniel Burton laughed and shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, I suppose they +are--valuable. But I shall have to confess I DON'T know very much +about it. They're very old, I can vouch for that." + +"Old! Humph!" The doctor was close to the mirror now, examining it +with the appreciative eyes of the real lover of the antique. "I should +say they were. Jove, that's a beauty! And I've got just the place +that's hungering for it." + +"Good! Suppose we look about the house, then, a little," suggested +Daniel Burton. "Perhaps we'll find some more things--er--good for a +hungry stomach, eh?" And with a light on his face such as had not been +there for long months past, Daniel Burton led the way from the studio. + + + + +CHAPTER XV + +AGAIN SUSAN TAKES A HAND + + +That evening Daniel Burton told Susan. "Keith is to go home with Dr. +Stewart next week. The doctor will operate as soon as possible. Keith +will live at the sanatorium connected with the doctor's home and be +under his constant supervision." + +Susan tried to speak, but instead of speaking she burst into tears. + +"Why, Susan!" exclaimed the man. + +"I know, I know," she choked, angrily dashing the drops from her eyes. +"An' me cryin' like this when I'm gettin' jest what I want, too!" + +"But there's no certainty, Susan, that it'll be successful; remember +that," warned the man, his face clouding a little. "We can only--hope." + +"An' there's the--the pay." Susan looked up, her voice vibrating with +fearful doubts. + +"Oh, that's all right." The man lifted his head with the air of one +who at last has reached firm ground after a dangerous crossing on thin +ice. "The doctor's going to buy the highboy and that mirror in the +studio, and--oh, several other things." + +"You mean that old chest of drawers in the settin'-room?" scorned +Susan openly. + +"Yes." Daniel Burton's lips twitched a little. + +"But will he PAY anything for 'em? Mr. Burton, you can't get nothin', +hardly, for second-hand furniture. My mother had a stove an' a real +nice bedstead, an' a red-plush parlor set, an' she sold 'em. But she +didn't get anything--not hardly anything, for 'em; an' they was 'most +new, some of 'em, too." + +"That's the trouble, Susan--they were too new, probably," laughed the +man. "It's because these are old, very old, that he wants them, I +suspect. + +"An' he'll really pay MONEY for 'em?" Plainly Susan still had her +doubts. + +"He certainly will. I'd be almost ashamed to tell you HOW much he'll +pay, Susan," smiled the man. "It seemed to me sheer robbery on my +part. But he assures me they are very valuable, and that he's more +than delighted to have them even at that price." + +"Lan' sakes! An' when I'd been worryin' an' worryin' so about the +money," sighed Susan; "an' now to have it fall plump into your lap +like that. It jest shows you not to hunt for bridges till you get your +feet wet, don't it? An' he's goin' jest next week?" + +"Yes. The doctor and his daughter start Tuesday." + +"You don't mean that girl Dorothy's goin' too?" Susan had almost +bounced out of her chair. + +"Why, yes, Dr. Stewart SAID she was. What's the matter?" + +"Matter? Matter enough! Why, if she goes--Say, why IS she taggin' +along, anyhow?" demanded Susan wrathfully. + +"Well, I shouldn't exactly call it 'taggin' along' to go home with her +father for the Christmas vacation," shrugged the man. "As I understand +it, Dorothy's mother died several years ago. That's why the girl is +here in the East so much with her relatives, going to school. The +doctor's home has become practically a sanatorium--not the most +desirable place in the world to bring up a young daughter in, I should +say. Let's see, how old is Miss Dorothy?" + +"Sixteen, Keith says. I asked him one day. She's about his age." + +"Hm-m; well, however that may be, Susan, I don't see how we can help +ourselves very well. I fancy Miss Dorothy'll still--tag along," he +finished whimsically. + +"Maybe, an' then maybe not," mumbled Susan darkly, as she turned away. + +For two days after this Susan's kitchen, and even Keith himself, +showed almost neglect; persistently and systematically Susan was +running "down street" every hour or two--ostensibly on errands, yet +she bought little. She spent most of her time tramping through the +streets and stores, scrutinizing especially the face of every young +girl she met. + +On the afternoon of the second day she met Dorothy Parkman coming out +of the post-office. + +"Well, I've got you at last," she sighed, "though I'm free to confess +I was beginnin' to think I never would see you." + +"Oh, yes, about Keith," cried the girl joyously. "Isn't it splendid! +I'm so glad! And he's going home with us right away, you know." + +"Yes, I know. An' that's what--that is, I wanted--" stammered Susan, +growing red in her misery. "Oh, Miss Dorothy, you WOULD do anything +for that poor blind boy, wouldn't you?" + +"Why, y-yes, of course," faltered Dorothy, stammering in her turn. + +"I knew you would. Then please don't go home with your father this +time." + +"Don't go home--with--my father!" exclaimed the girl, in puzzled +wonder. + +"No. Because if you do--That is--Oh, I know it's awful for me to say +this, but I've got to do it for Keith. You see, if you go,--Keith +won't." + +"If I go, he--I don't think--I quite understand." The girl drew back a +little haughtily. Her face showed a painful flush. + +"No, no, of course you don't! An' please, PLEASE don't look like +that," begged Susan. "It's jest this. I found out. I wormed it out of +him the other day--why he won't let you come to see him. He says that +once, long ago, you said how you couldn't bear to look at blind +people, an'--" + +"Oh, I never, never could have said such a cruel thing to--to a blind +boy," interposed the girl. + +"He wasn't blind then. He said he wasn't. But, it was when he was +'fraid he was goin' to be blind; an' he see you an' Mazie Sanborn at +the foot of Harrington Hill, one day. It was just after the old man +had got blind, an' Keith had been up to see him. It seems that Keith +was worryin' then for fear HE was goin' to be blind." + +"He WAS?" + +"Yes--things blurred, an' all that. Well, at the foot of the hill he +see you an' Mazie, an' you shuddered at his goin' up to see Mr. +Harrington, an' said how could he bear to look at folks that was +blind. That YOU couldn't. An' he never forgot it. Bein' worried for +fear he himself was goin' blind, you see, he was especially acceptable +to anything like that." + +"Oh, but I--I--At home I always did hate to see all the poor blind +people that came to see father," she stammered. "But it--it was only +because I felt so bad--for them. And that's one reason why father +doesn't keep me at home any more. He says--But, about Keith--I--I +didn't mean to--" Dorothy came to a helpless pause. + +"Yes, I know. You didn't mean to hurt him," nodded Susan. "But it did +hurt him. An' now he always thinks of it, if he knows you're 'round. +You see, worse'n anything else, he hates to be stared at or to have +folks think he's different. There ain't anything I can ever say to him +that makes him half so happy as to act as if he wa'n't blind." + +"Yes, I--see," breathed Dorothy, her eyes brimming. + +"An' so now you won't go, will you? Because if you go, he won't." + +Miss Dorothy frowned in deep thought for a moment. + +"I shall have to go," she said at last, slowly. "Father is just +counting on my being there Christmas, and he is so lonely--I couldn't +disappoint him. But, Keith--I won't have to see much of him, anyway. +I'll explain it to father. He won't mind. He's used to his patients +taking notions. It'll be all right. Don't worry," she nodded, her face +clearing. + +"But you'll have to be with Keith--some." + +"Oh, yes, a little. But he won't know who I am. I'm just Dr. Stewart's +daughter. Don't you see?" + +"But--he'll know your voice." + +"I shan't talk much. Besides, he never did hear me talk much. It was +always Mazie that talked most. And he hasn't heard me any for a year +or more, except that little bit that day at the house." + +"But your name, Dorothy," still argued Susan dubiously. + +"Father never calls me that. I'm always 'Puss' to him. And there won't +be anybody else with us on the journey. Don't you worry. You just send +Keith right along, and trust me for the rest. You'll see," she nodded +again brightly, as she turned away. + +Susan went home then to her neglected work. There seemed really +nothing else that she could do. But that she was far from following +Miss Dorothy's blithe advice "not to worry" was very evident from her +frowning brow and preoccupied air all the rest of the time until +Tuesday morning when Keith went--until, indeed, Mr. Burton came home +from seeing Keith off on his journey. Then her pent-up perturbation +culminated in an onslaught of precipitate questions. + +"Was he all right? Was that girl there? Did he know who she was? Do +you think he'll find out?" + +"One at a time, Susan, one at a time," laughed the man. "Yes, he was +all right. He went off smiling, with the doctor's arm about his +shoulders. Yes, the young lady was there, but she kept well away from +Keith, so far as I could see. Friends had come evidently to see her +off, but I noticed she contrived to keep herself and them as far away +from Keith as possible. Of course, on the journey there'll be just the +three of them. The test will come then. But I wouldn't worry, Susan. +Remember your own advice about those bridges of yours. He's started, +and he's with the doctor. I don't think he'll turn back now." + +"No, I s'pose not," sighed Susan. "But I wish I could really KNOW how +things are!" she finished, as she took up her work again. + +Thirty-six hours later came the telegram from the doctor telling of +their safe arrival, and a week later came a letter from Keith himself +to Susan. It was written in lead-pencil on paper that had been +carefully perforated so as to form lines not too near together. + +At the top of the page in parentheses were these words: + +DEAR SUSAN: If you think dad would like it you may read him a part or +the whole of this letter. I was afraid I wouldn't write very well and +that he wouldn't like to see it. So I write to you instead. I know you +won't mind. + +Below came the letter. + +DEAR SUSAN: How do you and dad do? I am well and hope you are the +same. + +This is an awfully pretty place with trees and big lawns all around +it, and walks and seats everywhere in the summer, they say. We aren't +sitting outdoors to-day, though. It's only four below! + +We had a jolly trip out. The doctor's great. He spent half his time +talking to me about the things we were seeing out the window. We went +through a wonderful country, and saw lots of interesting things. + +The doctor's daughter was along, too. But she didn't have much to say +on the trip. I've seen quite a lot of her since we've been here, +though, and she's ALL RIGHT. At first I didn't like her very well. It +was her voice, I guess. It reminded me of somebody I didn't like to be +reminded of. But after I got used to it I found she was really very +nice and jolly. She knows lots of games, and we play together a lot +now. She's so different from that girl she sounded like that I don't +mind her voice now. And I don't think she minds (here a rather +unsuccessful erasure showed that "playing with me" had been +substituted for "being with blind folks"). + +She gave me this paper, and told me the folks at home would like a +letter, she knew. That's why I'm writing it. And I guess that's enough +for this time. + +Love to all. KEITH BURTON + +P.S. I'm going to have the operation to-morrow, but they won't know +for quite a while whether it's successful or not, the doctor says. + KEITH + +Susan read this letter, then took it at once to the studio and read it +again aloud. + +"Now ain't that great?" she crowed, as soon as she had finished. + +"Y-yes, but he didn't say much about himself or his treatment," +demurred the man. + +Susan made an impatient gesture. + +"Why, yes, he did, too! Lan' sakes, Mr. Burton, he didn't talk about +nothin' else but himself an' his treatment, all the way through. Oh, I +know he didn't say anything about his occultist treatment, if that's +what you mean. But I didn't do no worryin' about that part. It was the +other part." + +"The other part!" + +"Yes. They're treatin' him as if he wa'n't different an' queer. An' +didn't you notice the way he wrote? Happy as a king tellin' about what +he SAW on the way out, an' the wonderful country they went through. +They're all right--them two are. I shan't do no more worryin' about +Keith. An' her fixin' that paper so cute for him to write on--I +declare I'm that zealous of her I don't know what to do. Why couldn't +_I_ 'a' thought of that?" she sighed, as she rose to leave the room. + +Two days later came a letter from the doctor. The operation had been +performed and, so far as they could judge, all was well, though, as +Keith had written, the real results would not show until the bandages +were removed some time later. + +When the schools opened again in January, Dorothy Parkman came back to +Hinsdale. Susan had been counting the days ever since Christmas, for +she knew Dorothy was coming, and she could scarcely wait to see her. +This time, however, she did not have to tramp through the streets and +stores looking for her, for Miss Dorothy came at once to the house and +rang the bell. + +"I knew you'd want to hear all about Mr. Keith," she smiled brightly +into Susan's eyes. "And I'm glad to report that he's doing all right." + +"Be them bandages off yet? Do you mean--he can see?" demanded Susan +excitedly, leading the way to the sitting-room. + +"Oh, no--no--not that!" cried the girl quickly. "I mean--he's doing +all right so far. It's a week yet before the bandages can be removed, +and even then, he probably won't see much--if at all. There'll have to +be another one--later--father says--maybe two more." + +"Oh!" Susan fell back, plainly disappointed. Then, suddenly, a new +interest flamed into her eyes. + +"An' he ain't sensed yet who you are?" she questioned. + +Miss Dorothy blushed, and Susan noticed suddenly how very pretty she +was. + +"No. Though I must confess that at first, when he heard my voice, he +looked up much startled, and even rose from his seat. But I told him +lots of folks thought I talked like Dorothy Parkman; and I just +laughed and turned it off, and made nothing of it. And so pretty quick +he made nothing of it, too. After that we got along beautifully." + +"I should say you did!" retorted Susan, almost enviously. "An' you +fixin' up that paper so fine for him to write on!" + +Miss Dorothy blushed again--and again Susan noticed how very charming +was the combination of brown eyes and yellow-gold hair. + +"Yes, he did like that paper," smiled the young girl. "He never +mentioned the lines, and neither did I. When I first suggested the +letter home he was all ready to refuse, I could see; but I wouldn't +give him the chance. Before he could even speak I had thrust the paper +into his hands, and I could see the wonder, interest, and joy in his +face as his fingers discovered the pricked lines and followed their +course from edge to edge. But he didn't let ME know he'd found them--not +much! 'Well, I don't know but they would like a letter,' was all +he said, casually. I knew then that I had won." + +"Well, I should say you had. But HOW did you know how?" cried Susan. + +"Oh, you told me first that I must talk to him as if he were not +blind. Then father told me the same thing. He said lots of his +patients were like that. So I always tried to do it that way. And it's +wonderful how, when you give it a little thought, you can manage to +tell them so much that they can turn about and tell somebody else, +just as if they really had seen it." + +"I know, I know," nodded Susan. "An'--Miss Dorothy"--her voice grew +unsteady--"he really IS goin' to see by an' by, ain't he?" + +The girl's face clouded. + +"They aren't at all sure of that." + +"But they can't tell YET?" Susan had grown a little white. + +"Oh, no, not sure." + +"An' they're goin' to give him all the chances there is?" + +"Certainly. I only spoke because I don't want you to be too +disappointed if--if we lose. You must remember that fully half of the +cases do lose." + +Susan drew a long sigh. Then, determinedly she lifted her chin. + +"Well, I like to think we ain't goin' to belong to that half," she +said. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI + +THE WORRY OF IT + + +There was a letter from the doctor when the bandages were removed. +Daniel Burton began to read the letter, but his eyes blurred and his +hand shook, so that Susan had to take it up where he had dropped it. + +Yet the letter was very short. + +The operation had been as successful, perhaps, as they could expect, +under the circumstances. Keith could discern light now--faintly, to be +sure, but unmistakably. He was well and happy. Meanwhile he was under +treatment for the second operation to come later. But that could not +be performed for some time yet, so they must not lose their patience. +That was all. + +"Well, I s'pose we ought to be glad he can see light even a little," +sighed Susan; "but I'm free to confess I was hopin' he could do a +little more than that." + +"Yes, so was I," said Daniel Burton. And Susan, looking at his face, +turned away without another word. There were times when Susan knew +enough not to talk. + +Then came the days when there were only Keith's letters and an +occasional short note from the doctor to break the long months of +waiting. + +In the Burton homestead at Hinsdale, living was reduced to the +simplest formula possible. On the whole, there was perhaps a little +more money. Dunning tradesmen were not so numerous. But all luxuries, +and some things that were almost necessities, were rigorously left +out. And the money was saved always--for Keith. A lodger, a young law +student, in Keith's old room helped toward defraying the family +expenses. + +Susan had given up trying to sell her "poems." She had become +convinced at last that a cruel and unappreciative editorial wall was +forever to bar her from what she still believed was an eagerly +awaiting public. She still occasionally wrote jingles and talked in +rhyme; but undeniably she had lost her courage and her enthusiasm. As +she expressed it to Mrs. McGuire, she did not feel "a mite like a +gushing siphon inside her now." + +As the summer came and passed, Susan and Mrs. McGuire talked over the +back-yard fence even more frequently. Perhaps because Susan was lonely +without Keith. Perhaps because there was so much to talk about. + +First there was Keith. + +Keith was still under treatment preparatory to the second operation. +He had not responded quite as they had hoped, the doctor said, which +meant that the operation must be postponed for perhaps several months +longer. + +All this Susan talked over with Mrs. McGuire; and there was always, +too, the hushed discussion as to what would happen if, after all, it +failed, and Keith came home hopelessly blind. + +"But even that ain't the worst thing that could happen," maintained +Susan stoutly. "I can tell you Keith Burton ain't goin' to let a +little thing like that floor him!" + +Mrs. McGuire, however, did not echo Susan's optimistic prophecies. But +Mrs. McGuire's own sky just now was overcast, which perhaps had +something to do with it. Mrs. McGuire had troubles of her own. + +It was the summer of 1914, and the never-to-be-forgotten August had +come and passed, firing the match that was destined to set the whole +world ablaze. Mrs. McGuire's eldest son John--of whom she boasted in +season and out and whom she loved with an all-absorbing passion--had +caught the war-fever, gone to Canada, and enlisted. Mrs. McGuire +herself was a Canadian by birth, and all her family still lived there. +She was boasting now more than ever about John; but, proud as she was +of her soldier boy, his going had plunged her into an abyss of doubt +and gloom. + +"He'll never come back, he'll never come back," she moaned to Susan. +"I can just feel it in my bones that he won't." + +"Shucks, a great, strong, healthy boy like John McGuire! Of course, +he'll come back," retorted Susan. "Besides, likely the war'll be all +over with 'fore he gets there, anyhow. An' as for feelin' it in your +bones, Mis' McGuire, that's a very facetious doctrine, an' ain't no +more to be depended upon than my flour sieve for an umbrella. They're +gay receivers every time--bones are. Why, lan' sakes, Mis' McGuire, if +all things happened that my bones told me was goin' to happen, there +wouldn't none of us be livin' by now, nor the sun shinin', nor the +moon moonin'. I found out, after awhile, how they DIDN'T happen half +the time, an' I wrote a poem on it, like this: + + Trust 'em not, them fickle bones, + Always talkin' moans an' groans. + Jest as if inside of you, + Lived a thing could tell you true, + Whether it was goin' to rain, + Whether you would have a pain, + Whether him or you would beat, + Whether you'd have 'nuf to eat! + Bones was give to hold us straight, + Not to tell us 'bout our Fate." + +"Yes, yes, I s'pose so," sighed Mrs. McGuire. "But when I think of +John, my John, lyin' there so cold an' still--" + +"Well, he ain't lyin' there yet," cut in Susan impatiently. "Time +enough to hunt bears when you see their tracks. Mis' McGuire, CAN'T +you see that worryin' don't do no good? You'll have it ALL for +nothin', if he don't get hurt; an' if he does, you'll have all this +extra for nothin', anyway,--that you didn't need till the time came. +Ever hear my poem on worryin'?" + +Without waiting for a reply--Susan never asked such questions with a +view to having them answered--she chanted this: + +"Worry never climbed a hill, + Worry never paid a bill, + Worry never led a horse to water. + Worry never cooked a meal, + Worry never darned a heel, + Worry never did a thing you'd think it oughter!" + +"Yes, yes, I know, I know," sighed Mrs. McGuire again. "But John is +so--well, you don't know my John. Nobody knows John as I do. He'd have +made a big man if he'd lived--John would." + +"'If he'd lived'!" repeated Susan severely. "Well, I never, Mis' +McGuire, if you ain't talkin' already as if he was dead! You don't +have to begin to write his obliquity notice yet, do you?" + +"But he is dead," moaned Mrs. McGuire, catching at the one word in +Susan's remark and paying no attention to the rest. "He's dead to +everything he was goin' to do. He was ambitious,--my John was. He was +always studyin' and readin' books nights an' Sundays an' holidays, +when he didn't have to be in the store. He was takin' a course, you +know." + +"Yes, I know--one of them respondin' schools," nodded Susan. "John's a +clever lad, he is, I'm free to confess." + +Under the sunshine of Susan's appreciation Mrs. McGuire drew a step +nearer. + +"He was studyin' so he could 'mount to somethin'--John was," declared +Mrs. McGuire. "He was goin' to be"--she paused and threw a hurried +look over her shoulder--"he was keepin' it secret, but he won't mind +my tellin' NOW. He was goin' to be a--writer some day, he hoped." + +Susan's instantly alert attention was most flattering. + +"Sho! You don't say! Poems?" + +"I don't know." Mrs. McGuire drew back and spoke a little coldly. Now +that the secret was out, Mrs. McGuire was troubled evidently with +qualms of conscience. "He never said much. He didn't want it talked +about." + +Susan drew a long breath. + +"Yes, I know. 'Tain't so pleasant if folks know--when you can't sell +'em. Now in my case--" + +But Mrs. McGuire, with a hurried word about the beans in her oven, had +hastened into the house. + +Mrs. McGuire was not the only one with whom Susan was having long +talks. September had come bringing again the opening of the schools, +which in turn had brought Miss Dorothy Parkman back to Hinsdale. + +Miss Dorothy was seventeen now, and prettier than ever--in Susan's +opinion. She had been again to her father's home; and Susan never +could hear enough of her visit or of Keith. Nor was Miss Dorothy +evidently in the least loath to talk of her visit--or of Keith. +Patiently, even interestedly, each time she saw Susan, she would +repeat for her the details of Keith's daily life, telling everything +that she knew about him. + +"But I've told you all there is, before," she said laughingly one day +at last, when Susan had stopped her as she was going by the house. +"I've told it several times before." + +"Yes, I know you have," nodded Susan, drawing a long breath; "but I +always get somethin' new in it, just as I do in the Bible, you know. +You always tell me somethin' you hadn't mentioned before. Now, +to-day--you never told me before about them dominoes you an' him +played together." + +"Didn't I?" An added color came into Miss Dorothy's cheeks. "Well, we +played them quite a lot. Poor fellow! Time hung pretty heavily on his +hands, and we HAD to do something for him. There were other games, +too, that we played together." + +"But how can he play dominoes, an' those others, when--when he can't +see?" + +"Oh, the points of the dominoes are raised, of course, and the board +has little round places surrounded by raised borders for him to keep +his dominoes in. The cards are marked with little raised signs in the +corners, and there are dice studded with tiny nailheads. The +checker-board has little grooves to keep the men from sliding. Of +course, we already had all these games, you know. They use them for +all father's patients. But, of course, Keith had to be taught first." + +"And you taught him?" + +"Well, I taught him some of them." The added color was still in Miss +Dorothy's cheeks. + +"An' you told me last week you read to him." + +"Yes, oh, yes. I read to him quite a lot." + +The anxiously puckered frown on Susan's face suddenly dissolved into a +broad smile. + +"Lan' sakes, if that ain't the limit!" she chuckled. + +"Well, what do you mean by that?" bridled Miss Dorothy, looking not +exactly pleased. + +"Nothin'. It's only that I was jest a-thinkin' how you was foolin' +him." + +"Fooling him?" Miss Dorothy was looking decidedly not pleased now. + +"Yes, an' you all the time Dorothy Parkman, an' he not knowin' it." + +"Oh!" The color on Miss Dorothy's face was one pink blush now. Then +she laughed lightly. "After all, do you know?--I hardly ever thought +of that, after the very first. He called me Miss Stewart, of course--but +lots of folks out there do that. They don't think, or don't know, +about my name being different, you see. The patients, coming and going +all the time, know me as the doctor's daughter, and naturally call me +'Miss Stewart.' So it doesn't seem so queer when Mr. Keith does it." + +"Good!" exclaimed Susan with glowing satisfaction. "An' now here's to +hopin' he won't never find out who you really be!" + +"Is he so very bitter, then, against--Dorothy Parkman?" The girl asked +the question a little wistfully. + +"He jest is," nodded Susan with unflattering emphasis. "If you'd heard +him when he jest persisted that he wouldn't have anybody that was +Dorothy Parkman's father even look at his eyes you'd have thought so, +I guess. An'--why, he even wrote about it 'way back last Christmas--I +mean, when he first told us about you. He said the doctor had a +daughter, an' she was all right; but he didn't like her at all at +first, 'cause her voice kept remindin' him of somebody he didn't want +to be reminded of." + +"Did he really write--THAT?" + +"Them's the identifyin' words," avowed Susan. "So you'll jest have to +keep it secret who you be, you see," she warned her. + +"Yes, I--see," murmured the girl. All the pretty color had quite gone +from her face now, leaving it a little white and strained-looking. +"I'll try--to." + +"Of course, when he gets back his sight he'll find out--that is, Miss +Dorothy, he IS going to get it back, ain't he?" Susan's own face now +had become a little white and strained-looking. + +Miss Dorothy shook her head. + +"I don't know, Susan; but I'm--afraid." + +"Afraid! You don't mean he AIN'T goin' to?" Susan caught Miss +Dorothy's arm in a vise-like grip. + +"No, no, not that; but we aren't--SURE. And--and the symptoms aren't +quite so good as they were," hurried on the girl a bit feverishly. + +"But I thought he could see--light," faltered Susan. + +"He could, at first, but it's been getting dimmer and dimmer, and +now"--the girl stopped and wet her lips--"there's to be a second +operation, you know. Father hopes to have it by Christmas, or before; +but I know father is afraid--that is--he thinks--" + +"He don't like the way things is goin'," cut in Susan grimly. "Ain't +that about it?" + +"I'm afraid it is," faltered Miss Dorothy, wetting her lips again. +"And when I think of that boy--" She turned away her head, leaving her +sentence unfinished. + +"Well, we ain't goin' to think of it till it comes" declared Susan +stoutly. "An' then--well, if it does come, we've all got to set to an' +help him forget it. That's all." + +"Yes, of--course," murmured the girl, turning away again. And this +time she turned quite away and went on down the street, leaving Susan +by the gate alone. + +"Nice girl, an' a mighty pretty one, too," whispered Susan, looking +after the trim little figure in its scarlet cap and sweater. "An' +she's got a good kind heart in her, too, a-carin' like that about that +poor boy's bein'--" + +Susan stopped short. A new look had come to her face--a look of +wonder, questioning, and dawning delight. "Lan' sakes, why hain't I +never thought of that before?" she muttered, her eyes still on the +rapidly disappearing little red figure down the street. "Oh, 'course +they're nothin' but babies now, but by an' by--! Still, if he ever +found out she was Dorothy Parkman, an' of course he'd have to find it +out if he married--Oh, lan' sakes, what fools some folks be!" + +With which somewhat cryptic statement Susan turned and marched +irritably into the house. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII + +DANIEL BURTON TAKES THE PLUNGE + + +Dr. Stewart's second operation on Keith's eyes took place late in +November. It was not a success. Far from increasing his vision, it +lessened it. Only dimly now could he discern light at all. + +In a letter to Daniel Burton, Dr. Stewart stated the case freely and +frankly, yet he declared that he had not given up hope--yet. He had a +plan which, with Mr. Burton's kind permission, he would carry out. He +then went on to explain. + +In Paris there was a noted specialist in whom he had great confidence. +He wished very much that this man could see Keith. To take Keith over +now, however, as war conditions were, would, of course, be difficult +and hazardous. Besides, as he happened to know, this would not be +necessary, for the great man was coming to this country some time in +May. To bring Keith to his attention then would be a simple matter, +and a chance well worth waiting for. Meanwhile, the boy was as +comfortable where he was as he could be anywhere, and, moreover, there +were certain treatments which should still be continued. With Daniel +Burton's kind permission, therefore, the doctor would keep Keith where +he was for the present, pending the arrival of the great specialist. + +It was a bitter blow. For days after the letter came, Daniel Burton +shut himself up in his studio refusing to see any one but Susan, and +almost refusing to see her. Susan, indeed, heart-broken as she was +herself, had no time to indulge her own grief, so busy was she trying +to concoct something that would tempt her employer to break a fast +that was becoming terrifying to her. + +Then came Keith's letter. He wrote cheerfully, hopefully. He told of +new games that he was playing, new things of interest that he was +"seeing." He said nothing whatever about the operation. He did say +that there was a big doctor coming from Paris, whom he was going to +"see" in May, however. That was all. + +When the doctor's letter had come, telling of the failure of the +second operation, Susan had read it and accepted it with sternly +controlled eyes that did not shed one tear. But when Keith's letter +came, not even mentioning the operation, her self-control snapped, and +she burst openly into tears. + +"I don't care," she sobbed, in answer to Daniel Burton's amazed +exclamation. "When I think of the way that blessed boy is holdin' up +his head an' marchin' straight on; an' you an' me here--oh, lan' +sakes, what's the use of TRYIN' to say it!" she despaired, turning and +hurrying from the room. + +In December Dr. Stewart came on again to take his daughter back for +the holidays. He called at once to see Mr. Burton, and the two had a +long conference in the studio, while Susan feverishly moved from room +to room downstairs, taking up and setting down one object after +another in the aimless fashion of one whose fingers are not controlled +by the mind. + +When the doctor had gone, Susan did not wait for Daniel Burton to seek +her out. She went at once to the studio. + +"No, he had nothing new to say about Keith," began the man, answering +the agonized question in her eyes before her lips could frame the +words. + +"But didn't he say NOTHIN'?" + +"Oh, yes, he said a great deal--but it was only a repetition of what +he had said before in the letter." Daniel Burton spoke wearily, +constrainedly. His face had grown a little white. "The doctor bought +the big sofa in the hall downstairs, and the dropleaf table in the +dining-room." + +"Humph! But will he PAY anything for them things?" + +"Yes, he will pay well for them. And--Susan." + +"Yes, sir." Something in the man's face and voice put a curious note +of respect into Susan's manner as sudden as it was unusual. + +"I've been intending to tell you for some time. I--I shall want +breakfast at seven o'clock to-morrow morning. I--I am going to work in +McGuire's store." + +"You are goin' to--what?" Susan's face was aghast. + +"To work, I said," repeated Daniel Burton sharply. "I shall want +breakfast at seven o'clock, Susan." He turned away plainly indicating +that for him the matter was closed. + +But for Susan the matter was not closed. + +"Daniel Burton, you ain't goin' to demean yourself like that!" she +gasped;--"an artistical gentleman like you! Why, I'd rather work my +hands to the bones--" + +"That will do, Susan. You may go." + +And Susan went. There were times when Susan did go. + +But not yet for Susan was the matter closed. Only an hour later Mrs. +McGuire "ran over" with a letter from her John to read to Susan. But +barely had she finished reading the letter aloud, when the real object +of her visit was disclosed by the triumphant: + +"Well, Susan Betts, I notice even an artist has to come down to bein' +a 'common storekeeper' sometimes." + +Susan drew herself up haughtily. + +"Of course, Mis' McGuire, 't ain't for me to pretense that I don't +know what you're inferrin' to. But jest let me tell you this: it don't +make no difference how many potatoes an' molasses jugs an' kerosene +cans Daniel Burton hands over the counter he won't never be jest a +common storekeeper. He'll be THINKIN' flowers an' woods an' sunsets +jest the same. Furthermore an' moreover, in my opinion it's a very +honorary an' praiseful thing for him to do, to go out in the hedges +an' byways an' earn money like that, when, if the world only knew +enough to know a good thing when they see it, they'd be buy in' them +pictures of his, an' not subjugate him to the mystification of earnin' +his bread by the sweat of his forehead." + +"Oh, good gracious me, Susan Betts, how you do run on, when you get +started!" ejaculated Mrs. McGuire impatiently, yet laughingly. "An' I +might have known what you'd say, too, if I'd stopped to think. Well, I +must be goin', anyhow. I only came over to show you the letter from my +John. I'm sure I wish't was him comin' back to his old place behind +the counter instead of your Daniel Burton," she sighed. "I'd buy every +picture he ever painted (if I had the money), if 't would only bring +my John back, away from all those awful bombs an' shells an' shrapnel +that he's always writin' about." + +"Them be nice letters he writes, I'm free to confess," commented Susan +graciously. "Not that they tell so much what he's doin', though; but I +s'pose they're censured, anyhow--all them letters be." + +Mrs. McGuire, her eyes dreamily fixed out the window, nodded her head +slowly. + +"Yes, I s'pose so; but there's a lot left--there's always a lot left. +And everything he writes I can just see. It was always like that with +my John. Let him go downtown an' come back--you'd think he'd been to +the circus, the wonderful things he'd tell me he'd seen on the way. +An' he'd set 'em out an' describe 'em until I could just see 'em +myself! I'll never forget. One day he went to a fire. The old Babcock +house burned, an' he saw it. He was twelve years old. I was sick in +bed, an' he told me about it. I can see him now, standin' at the foot +of the bed, his cheeks red, his eyes sparklin' an' his little hands +flourishin' right an' left in his excitement. As he talked, I could +just see that old house burn. I could hear the shouts of the men, the +roar an' cracklin' of the flames, an' see 'em creepin', creepin', +gainin', gainin'-! Oh, it was wonderful--an' there I was right in my +own bed, all the time. It was just the way he told it. That's why I +know he could have been a writer. He could make others see--everything. +But now--that's all over now. He'll never be--anything. I can see him. +I can see all that horrible battle-field with the reelin' men, the +flames, the smoke, the burstin' shells, an', oh, God--my John! Will +he ever, ever come back--to me?" + +"There, there, Mis' McGuire, I jest wouldn't--" But Mrs. McGuire, with +a shake of her head, and her eyes half covered with her hand, turned +away and stumbled out of the kitchen. + +Susan, looking after her, drew a long sigh. + + "Worry never climbed a hill, + Worry never-- + +There's some times when it's frank impertinence to tell folks not to +worry," she muttered severely to herself, attacking the piled-up +dishes before her. + +Daniel Burton went to work in McGuire's grocery store the next +morning, after a particularly appetizing breakfast served to him by a +silent, red-eyed, but very attentive Susan. + +"An' 'twas for all the world like a lamb to the slaughter-house," +Susan moaned to the law-student lodger when she met him on the stairs +at eight o'clock that morning. "An' if you want to see a real +slaughter-house, you jest come in here," she beckoned him, leading the +way to the studio. + +"But--but--that is--well--" stammered the young fellow, looking not a +little startled as he followed her, with half-reluctant feet. + +In the studio Susan flourished accusing arms. + +"Look at that, an' that, an' that!" she cried. "Why, it's like jest +any extraordinary common-sense room now, that anybody might have, with +them pictures all put away, an' his easel hid behind the door, an' not +a brush or a cube of paint in sight--an' him dolin' out vinegar an' +molasses down to that old store. I tell you it made me sick, Mr. +Jenkins, sick!" + +"Yes, yes, that's so," murmured Mr. Jenkins, vaguely. + +"Well, it did. Why, it worked me up so I jest sat right down an' made +up a poem on it. I couldn't help it. An' it came easy, too--'most like +the spontaneous combustion kind that I used to write, only I made it +free verse. You know that's all the rage now. Like this," she +finished, producing from somewhere about her person a half-sheet of +note-paper. + + "Alone an' dark + The studio + Waited: + Waited for the sun of day. + But when it rose, + Alas! + No lovely pictures greeted + The fiery gob. + Only their backs showed + White an' sorry an' some dusty. + No easel sprawled long legs + To trip + An' make you slip. + No cubes of pig-lent gray + Or black, + Nor any other color lent brightness + To this dank world. + An' he--the artist? The bright soul who + Bossed this ranch? + Alas! + Doomed to hide his bright talons + In smelly kegs of kerosene + An' molasses brown an' sticky. + Alas, that I should see an' + Know this + Day. + +There, now, ain't that about the way 'tis?" she demanded feelingly. + +"Er--yes, yes, it is. That's so." Mr. Jenkins was backing out of the +room and looking toward the stairway. Mr. Jenkins had been a member of +the Burton household long enough to have learned to take Susan at her +own valuation, with no questions asked. "Yes, that's so," he repeated, +as he plunged down the stairs. + +To Daniel Burton himself Susan made no further protests or even +comments--except the silent comment of eager service with some +favorite dish for every meal. As Christmas drew near, and Daniel +Burton's hours grew longer, Susan still made no audible comment; but +she redoubled her efforts to make him comfortable the few hours left +to him at home. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + +"MISS STEWART" + + +It was just after Christmas that another letter came from Keith. It +was addressed as usual to Susan. Keith had explained in his second +letter that he was always going to write to Susan, so that she might +read it to his father, thus saving him the disagreeableness of seeing +how crooked and uneven some of his lines were. His father had +remonstrated--feebly; but Keith still wrote to Susan. + +Keith had been improving in his writing very rapidly, however, since +those earliest letters, and most of his letters now were models of +even lines and carefully formed characters. But this letter Susan saw +at once was very different. It bore unmistakable marks of haste, +agitation, and lack of care. It began abruptly, after the briefest of +salutations: + +Why didn't you tell me you knew Miss Stewart? She says she knows you +real well, and father, too, and that she's been to the house lots of +times, and that she's going back to Hinsdale next week, and that she +is going to school there this year, and will graduate in June. + +Oh, she didn't tell me all this at once, you bet your sweet life. I +had to worm it out of her little by little. But what I want to know +is, why you folks didn't tell me anything about it--that you knew her, +and all that? But you never said a word--not a word. Neither you nor +dad. But she says she knows dad real well. Funny dad never mentioned +it! + +Miss Stewart sure is a peach of a girl all right and the best ever to +me. She's always hunting up new games for me to play. She's taught me +two this time, and she's read two books to me. There's a new fellow +here named Henty, and we play a lot together. I am well, and getting +along all right. Guess that's all for this time. Love to all. + KEITH +P.S. Now don't forget to tell me why you never said a thing that you +knew Miss Stewart. + K. + +"Well, now I guess the kettle is in the fire, all right!" ejaculated +Susan, folding the letter with hands that shook a little. + +"What do you mean?" asked Daniel Burton. + +"Why, about that girl, of course. He'll find out now she's Dorothy +Parkman. He can't help findin' it out!" "Well, what if he does?" +demanded the man, a bit impatiently. + +"'What if he does?'" repeated Susan, with lofty scorn. "I guess you'll +find what 'tis when that boy does find out she's Dorothy Parkman, an' +then won't have nothin' more to do with her, nor her father, nor her +father's new doctor, nor anything that is hers." + +"Nonsense, Susan, don't be silly," snapped the man, still more +irritably. "'Nor her father, nor her father's new doctor, nor anything +that is hers,' indeed! You sound for all the world as if you were +chanting a catechism! What's the matter? Doesn't the boy like Miss +Dorothy?" + +"Why, Daniel Burton, you know he don't! I told you long ago all about +it, when I explained how we'd got to give her father a resumed name, +so Keith wouldn't know, an'--" + +"Oh, THAT! What she said about not wanting to see blind people? +Nonsense, Susan, that was years ago, when they were children! Why, +Keith's a man, nearly. You're forgetting--he'll be eighteen next June, +Susan." + +"That's all right, Mr. Burton." Susan's lips snapped together grimly +and her chin assumed its most defiant tilt. "I ain't sayin' he ain't. +But there's some cases where age don't make a mite of difference, an' +you'll find this is one of 'em. You mark my words, Daniel Burton. I +have seen jest as big fools at eighteen, an' eighty, for that matter, +as I have at eight. 'T ain't a matter of decree at all. Keith Burton +got it into his head when he was first goin' blind that Dorothy +Parkman would hate to look at him if ever he did get blind; an' he +just vowed an' determined that if ever he did get that way, she +shouldn't see him. Well, now he's blind. An' if you think he's forgot +what Dorothy Parkman said, you'd oughter been with me when she came to +see him with Mazie Sanborn one day, or even when they just called up +to him on the piazza one mornin'." + +"Well, well, very likely," conceded the man irritably; "but I still +must remind you, Susan, that all this was some time ago. Keith's got +more sense now." "Maybe--an' then again maybe not. However, we'll +see--what we will see," she mumbled, as she left the room with a little +defiant toss of her head. + +Susan did not answer Keith's letter at once. Just how she was going to +answer that particular question concerning their acquaintance with +"Miss Stewart" she did not know, nor could she get any assistance from +Daniel Burton on the subject. + +"Why, tell him the truth, of course," was all that Daniel Burton would +answer, with a shrug, in reply to her urgent appeals for aid in the +matter. This, Susan, in utter horror, refused to do. + +"But surely you don't expect to keep it secret forever who she is, do +you?" demanded Daniel Burton scornfully one day. + +"Of course I don't. But I'm going to keep it jest as long as I can," +avowed Susan doggedly. "An' maybe I can keep it--till he gets his +blessed eyes back. I shan't care if he does find out then." + +"I don't think--we'll any of us--mind anything then, Susan," said the +man softly, a little brokenly. And Susan, looking into his face, +turned away suddenly, to hide her own. + +That evening Susan heard that Dorothy Parkman was expected to arrive +in Hinsdale in two days. + +"I'll jest wait, then, an' intervene the young lady my own self," she +mused, as she walked home from the post-office. "This tryin' to settle +Dorothy Parkman's affairs without Dorothy Parkman is like havin' +omelet with omelet left out," she finished, nodding to herself all in +the dark, as she turned in at the Burton gateway. + +Dorothy Parkman came two days later. As was usual now she came at once +to the house. Susan on the watch, met her at the door, before she +could touch the bell. + +"Come in, come in! My, but I'm glad to see you!" exclaimed Susan +fervently, fairly pulling her visitor into the house. "Now tell me +everything----every single thing." + +"Why, there isn't much to tell, Susan. Mr. Keith is about the same, +and--" + +"No, no, I mean--about YOU" interrupted Susan, motioning the girl to a +chair, and drawing her own chair nearer. "About your bein' in Hinsdale +an' knowin' us, an' all that, an' his finding it out." + +"Oh, THAT!" The color flew instantly into Miss Dorothy's cheeks. "Then +he's--he's written you?" + +"Written us! I should say he had! An' he wants to know why we hain't +told him we know you. An', lan' sakes, Miss Dorothy, what can we tell +him?" + +"I--I don't know, Susan." + +"But how'd you get in such a mess? How'd he find out to begin with?" +demanded the woman. + +Miss Dorothy drew a long sigh. "Oh, it was my fault, of course. +I--forgot. Still, it's a wonder I hadn't forgotten before. You see, +inadvertently, I happened to drop a word about Mr. Burton. 'Do you +know my dad?' he burst out. Then he asked another and another +question. Of course, I saw right away that I must turn it off as if I +supposed he'd known it all the time. It wouldn't do to make a secret +of it and act embarrassed because he'd found it out, for of course +then he'd suspect something wrong right away." + +"Yes, yes, I s'pose so," admitted Susan worriedly. "But, lan' sakes, +look at us! What are we goin' to say? Now he wants to know why we +hain't told him about knowin' you." + +"I don't know, Susan, I don't know." The girl shook her head and +caught her breath a bit convulsively. "Of course, when I first let it +go that I was 'Miss Stewart,' I never realized where it was going to +lead, nor how--how hard it might be to keep it up. I've been expecting +every day he'd find out, from some one there. But he hasn't--yet. Of +course, Aunt Hattie, who keeps house for father, is in the secret, and +SHE'D never give it away. Most of the patients don't know much about +me, anyway. You see, I've never been there much. They just know +vaguely of 'the doctor's daughter,' and they just naturally call her +'Miss Stewart.'" + +"Yes, yes, I see, I see," nodded Susan, again still worriedly. "But +what I'm thinkin' of is US, Miss Dorothy. How are we goin' to get +'round not mentionin' you all this time, without his findin' out who +you be an' demandin' a full exposition of the whole affair. Say, look +a-here, would it be--be very bad if he DID find out you was Dorothy +Parkman?" + +"I'm afraid--it would be, Susan." The girl spoke slowly, a bit +unsteadily. She had gone a little white at the question. + +"Has he SAID anything?" + +"Nothing, only he-- When we were talking that day, and he was flinging +out those questions one after another, about Hinsdale, and what I knew +of it, he--he asked if I knew Dorothy Parkman." + +"Miss Dorothy, he didn't!" + +"But he did. It was awful, Susan. I felt like--like--" + +"Of course you did," interposed Susan, her face all sympathy, +"a-sailin' under false premises like that, an' when you were perfectly +innocuous, too, of any sinfulness, an' was jest doing it for his best +good an' peace of mind. Lan' sakes, what a prediction to be in! What +DID you say?" + +"Why, I said yes, of course. I had to say yes. And I tried to turn it +off right away, and not talk any more about it. But that was easy, +anyway, for--for Mr. Keith himself dropped it. But I knew, by the way +he looked, and said 'yes, I know her, too,' in that quiet, stern way +of his, that--that I'd better not let him find out I was she--not if I +wanted to--to stay in the room," she finished, laughing a little +hysterically. + +"Lan' sakes, you don't say!" frowned Susan. + +"Yes; and so that's what makes me know that whatever you do, you +mustn't let him know that I am Dorothy Parkman," cried the girl +feverishly; "not now--not until he's seen the Paris doctor, for +there's no knowing what he'd do. He'd be so angry, you see. He'd never +forgive me, for on top of all the rest is the deceit--that I've been +with him all these different times, and let him call me 'Miss +Stewart.'" + +"But how can we do that?" demanded Susan. + +"Why, just turn it off lightly. Say, of course, you know me; and seem +surprised that you never happened to mention it before. Tell him, oh, +yes, I come quite often to tell you and Mr. Burton how he's getting +along, and all that. Just make nothing of it--take it as a matter of +course, not worth mentioning. See? Then go on and talk about something +else. That'll fix it all right, I'm sure, Susan." + +"Hm-m; maybe so, an' then again maybe not," observed Susan, with +frowning doubt. "As I was tellin' Mr. Burton this mornin' we've got to +be 'specially careful about Keith jest now. It's the most +hypercritical time there can be--with him waitin' to see that big +doctor, an' all--an' he mustn't be upset, no matter what happens, nor +how many white lies we have to prognosticate here at home." + +"I guess that's so, Susan." Miss Dorothy's eyes were twinkling now. +"And, by the way, where is Mr. Burton? I haven't seen him yet." + +"He ain't here." + +"You don't mean he has gone out of town?" The girl had looked up in +surprise at the crisp terseness of Susan's reply. + +"Oh, no, he's--in Hinsdale." + +"Painting any new pictures these days?" Miss Dorothy was on her feet +to go. She asked the question plainly not for information, but to fill +the embarrassing pause that Susan's second reply had brought to the +conversation. + +"No, he ain't," spoke up Susan with a vehemence as disconcerting as it +was sudden. "He ain't paintin' nothin', an' he ain't drawin' nothin' +neither--only molasses an' vinegar an' kerosene. He's clerkin' down to +McGuire's grocery store, if you want to know. That's where he is." + +"Why--SUSAN!" + +"Yes, I know. You don't have to say nothin', Miss Dorothy. Besides, I +wouldn't let you say it if you did. I won't let nobody say it but me. +But I will say this much. When folks has set one foot in the cemetery, +an' a lame one at that, an' can't see nor hear nor think straight, I +don't think it's no hilarious offense to wish they'd hurry up an' get +to where they could have all them handy facilities back again, an' +leave their money to folks what has got their full complaint of +senses, ready to enjoy life, if they get a chance. Oh, yes, I know you +don't know what I'm talkin' about, an' perhaps it's jest as well you +don't, Miss Dorothy. I hadn't oughter said it, anyhow. Well, I s'pose +I've got to go write that letter to Keith now. Seein' as how you've +come I can't put it off no longer. Goodness only knows, though, what +I'm goin' to say," she sighed, as her visitor nodded back a +wistful-eyed good-bye. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX + +A MATTER OF LETTERS + + +Susan said afterward, in speaking of that spring, that "'twas nothin' +but jest one serious of letters." And, indeed, life did seem to be +mostly made up of letters. + +At the sanatorium Keith was waiting for spring and the new doctor; and +that the waiting was proving to be a little nerve-racking was proved +by the infrequency of his letters home, and the shortness and +uncommunicativeness of such as did come. + +Letters to him from Hinsdale were longer and were invariably bright +and cheery. Yet they did not really tell so much, after all. To be +sure, they did contain frequent reference to "your Miss Stewart," and +gave carefully casual accounts of what she did and said. In the very +first letter Susan had hit upon the idea of always referring to the +young lady as "your Miss Stewart." + +"Then we won't be tellin' no lies," she had explained to Mr. Burton, +'"cause she IS his 'Miss Stewart.' See? She certainly don't belong to +no one else under that name--that's sure!" + +But however communicative as regards "Miss Stewart" the letters were, +they were very far from that as regarded some other matters. For +instance: neither in Daniel Burton's letters, nor in Susan's, was +there any reference to the new clerk in McGuire's grocery store. So +far as anything that Keith knew to the contrary, his father was still +painting unsalable pictures in the Burton home-stead studio. + +But even these were not all the letters that spring. There were the +letters of John McGuire from far-away France--really wonderful +letters--letters that brought to the little New England town the very +breath of the battle-field itself, the smell of its smoke, the shrieks +of its shells. And with Mr. Burton, with Susan, with the whole +neighborhood indeed, Mrs. McGuire shared them. They were even printed +occasionally in the town's weekly newspaper. And they were talked of +everywhere, day in and day out. No wonder, then, that, to Susan, the +spring seemed but a "serious of letters." + +It was in May that the great Paris doctor was expected; but late in +April came a letter from Dr. Stewart saying that, owing to war +conditions, the doctor had been delayed. He would not reach this +country now until July--which meant two more months of weary waiting +for Keith and for Keith's friends at home. + +It was just here that Susan's patience snapped. + +"When you get yourself screwed up to stand jest so much, an' then they +come along with jest a little more, somethin's got to break, I tell +you. Well, I've broke." + +Whether as a result of the "break" or not, Susan did not say, neither +did she mention whether it was to assuage her own grief or to +alleviate Keith's; but whatever it was, Susan wrote these verses and +sent them to Keith: + + BY THE DAY + + When our back is nigh to breakin', + An' our strength is nearly gone, + An' along there comes the layin' + Of another burden on-- + + If we'll only jest remember, + No matter what's to pay, + That 'tisn't yet December, + An' we're livin' by the day. + +'Most any one can stand it-- + What jest TO-DAY has brought. + It's when we try to lump it, + An' take it by the lot! + + Why, any back would double, + An' any legs'll bend, + If we pile on all the trouble + Meant to last us till the end! + + So if we'll jest remember, + Half the woe from life we'll rob + If we'll only take it "by the day," + An' not live it "by the job." + +"Of course that ''tisn't yet December' is poem license, and hain't +really got much sense to it," wrote Susan in the letter she sent with +the verses. "I put it in mostly to rhyme with 'remember.' (There +simply wasn't a thing to rhyme with that word!) But, do you know, +after I got it down I saw it really could mean somethin', after +all--kind of diabolical-like for the end of life, you know, like +December is the end of the year. + +"Well, anyhow, they done me lots of good, them verses did, an' I hope +they will you." + +In June Dorothy Parkman was graduated from the Hinsdale Academy. Both +Mr. Burton and Susan attended the exercises, though not together. Then +Susan sat down and wrote a glowing account of the affair to Keith, +dilating upon the fine showing that "your Miss Stewart" made. + +"It can't last forever, of course--this subtractin' Miss Stewart's +name for Dorothy Parkman," she said to Mr. Burton, when she handed him +the letter to mail. "But I'm jest bound an' determined it shall last +till that there Paris doctor gets his hands on him. An' she ain't +goin' back now to her father's for quite a spell--Miss Dorothy, I +mean," further explained Susan. "I guess she don't want to take no +chances herself of his findin' out--jest yet," declared Susan, with a +sage wag of her head. "Anyhow, she's had an inspiration to go see a +girl down to the beach, an' she's goin'. So we're safe for a while. +But, oh, if July'd only hurry up an' come!" + +And yet, when July came-- + +They were so glad, afterward, that Dr. Stewart wrote the letter that +in a measure prepared them for the bad news. He wrote the day before +the operation. He said that the great oculist was immensely interested +in the case and eager to see what he could do--though he could hold +out no sort of promise that he would be able to accomplish the desired +results. Dr. Stewart warned them, therefore, not to expect +anything--though, of course, they might hope. Hard on the heels of the +letter came the telegram. The operation had been performed--and had +failed, they feared. They could not tell surely, however, until the +bandages were removed, which would be early in August. But even if it +had failed, there was yet one more chance, the doctor wrote. He would +say nothing about that, however, until he was obliged to. + +In August he wrote about it. He was obliged to. The operation had been +so near a failure that they might as well call it that. The Paris +oculist, however, had not given up hope. There was just one man in the +world who might accomplish the seemingly impossible and give back +sight to Keith's eyes--at least a measure of sight, he said. This man +lived in London. He had been singularly successful in several of the +few similar cases known to the profession. Therefore, with their kind +permission, the great Paris doctor would take Keith back with him to +his brother oculist in London. He would like to take ship at once, as +soon as arrangements could possibly be made. There would be delay +enough, anyway, as it was. So far as any question of pay was +concerned, the indebtedness would be on their side entirely if they +were privileged to perform the operation, for each new case of this +very rare malady added knowledge of untold value to the profession, +hence to humanity in general. He begged, therefore, a prompt word of +permission from Keith's father. + +"Don't you give it, don't you give it!" chattered Susan, with white +lips, when the proposition was made clear to her. + +"Why, Susan, I thought you'd be willing to try anything, ANYTHING--for +Keith's sake." + +"An' so I would, sir, anything in season. But not this. Do you think +I'd set that blessed boy afloat on top of them submarines an' +gas-mines, an' to go to London for them German Zepherin's to rain down +bombs an' shrapnel on his head, an' he not bein' able to see a thing +to dodge 'em when he sees 'em comin'? Why, Daniel Burton, I'm ashamed +of you--to think of it, for a minute!" + +"There, there, Susan, that will do. You mean well, I know; but this is +a matter that I shall have to settle for myself, for myself," he +muttered with stern dignity, rising to his feet. Yet when he left the +room a moment later, head and shoulders bowed, he looked so old and +worn that Susan, gazing after him, put a spasmodic hand to her throat. + +"An' I jest know I'm goin' to lose 'em both now," she choked as she +turned away. + +Keith went to London. Then came more weeks of weary, anxious waiting. +Letters were not so regular now, nor so frequent. Definite news was +hard to obtain. Yet in the end it came all too soon--and it was +piteously definite. + +Keith was coming home. The great London doctor, too, had--failed. + + + + +CHAPTER XX + +WITH CHIN UP + + +Keith came in April. The day before he was expected, Susan, sweeping +off the side porch, was accosted by Mrs. McGuire. + +It was the first warm spring-like day, and Mrs. McGuire, bareheaded +and coatless, had opened the back-yard gate and was picking her way +across the spongy turf. + +"My, but isn't this a great day, Susan!" she called, with an ecstatic, +indrawn breath. "I only wish it was as nice under foot." + +"Hain't you got no rubbers on?" Susan's disapproving eyes sought Mrs. +McGuire's feet. + +Mrs. McGuire laughed lightly. + +"No. That's the one thing I leave off the first possible minute. Some +way, I feel as if I was helpin' along the spring." + +"Humph! Well, I should help along somethin' 'sides spring, I guess, if +I did it. Besides, it strikes me rubbers ain't the only thing you're +leavin' off." Susan's disapproving eyes had swept now to Mrs. +McGuire's unprotected head and shoulders. + +"Oh, I'm not cold. I love it. As if this glorious spring sunshine +could do any one any harm! Susan, it's LIEUTENANT McGuire, now! I came +over to tell you. My John's been promoted." + +"Sho, you don't say! Ain't that wonderful, now?" Susan's broom stopped +in midair. + +"Not when you know my John!" The proud mother lifted her head a +little. "'For bravery an' valiant service'--Lieutenant McGuire! Oh +Susan, Susan, but I'm the proud woman this mornin'!" + +"Yes, of course, of course, I ain't wonderin' you be!" Susan drew a +long sigh and fell to sweeping again. + +Mrs. McGuire, looking into Susan's face, came a step nearer. Her own +face sobered. + +"An' me braggin' like this, when you folks-! I know--you're thinkin' +of that poor blind boy. An' it's just to-morrow that he comes, isn't +it?" + +Susan nodded dumbly. + +"An' it's all ended now an' decided--he can't ever see, I s'pose," +went on Mrs. McGuire. "I heard 'em talkin' down to the store last +night. It seems terrible." + +"Yes, it does." Susan was sweeping vigorously now, over and over again +in the same place. + +"I wonder how--he'll take it." + +Susan stopped sweeping and turned with a jerk. + +"Take it? He's got to take it, hain't he?" she demanded fiercely. +"He's GOT TO! An' things you've got to do, you do. That's all. You'll +see. Keith Burton ain't no quitter. He'll take it with his head up an' +his shoulders braced. I know. You'll see. Don't I remember the look on +his blessed face that day he went away, an' stood on them steps there, +callin' back his cheery good-bye?" + +"But, Susan, there was hope then, an' there isn't any now--an' you +haven't seen him since. You forget that." + +"No, I don't," retorted Susan doggedly. "I ain't forgettin' nothin'. +'But you'll see!" + +"An' he's older. He realizes more. Why, he must be--How old is he, +anyway?" + +"He'll be nineteen next June." + +"Almost a man. Poor boy, poor boy--an' him with all these years of +black darkness ahead of him! I tell you, Susan, I never appreciated my +eyes as I have since Keith lost his. Seems as though anybody that's +got their eyes hadn't ought to complain of--anything. I was thinkin' +this mornin', comin' over, how good it was just to SEE the blue sky +an' the sunshine an' the little buds breakin' through their brown +jackets. Why, Susan, I never realized how good just seein' was--till I +thought of Keith, who can't never see again." + +"Yes. Well, I've got to go in now, Mis' McGuire. Good-bye." + +Words, manner, and tone of voice were discourtesy itself; but Mrs. +McGuire, looking at Susan's quivering face, brimming eyes, and set +lips, knew it for what it was and did not mistake it for--discourtesy. +But because she knew Susan would prefer it so, she turned away with a +light "Yes, so've I. Good-bye!" which gave no sign that she had seen +and understood. + +Dr. Stewart came himself with Keith to Hinsdale and accompanied him to +the house. It had been the doctor's own suggestion that neither the +boy's father nor Susan should meet them at the train. Perhaps the +doctor feared for that meeting. Naturally it would not be an easy one. +Naturally too, he did not want to add one straw to Keith's already +grievous burden. So he had written: + +I will come to the house. As I am a little uncertain as to the train I +can catch from Boston, do not try to meet me at the station. + +"Jest as if we couldn't see through that subterranean!" Susan had +muttered to herself over the dishes that morning. "I guess he knows +what train he's goin' to take all right. He jest didn't want us to +meet him an' make a scenic at the depot. I wonder if he thinks I +would! Don't he think I knows anything?" + +But, after all, it was very simple, very quiet, very ordinary. Dr. +Stewart rang the bell and Susan went to the door. And there they +stood: Keith, big and strong and handsome (Susan had forgotten that +two years could transform a somewhat awkward boy into so fine and +stalwart a youth); the doctor, pale, and with an apprehensive +uncertainty in his eyes. + +"Well, Susan, how are you?" Keith's voice was strong and steady, and +the outstretched hand gripped hers with a clasp that hurt. + +Then, in some way never quite clear to her, Susan found herself in the +big living-room with Keith and the doctor and Daniel Burton, all +shaking hands and all talking at once. They sat down then, and their +sentences became less broken, less incoherent. But they said only +ordinary things about the day, the weather, the journey home, John +McGuire, the war, the President's message, the entry of the United +States into the conflict. There was nothing whatever said about eyes +that could see or eyes that could not see, or operations that failed. + +And by and by the doctor got up and said that he must go. To be sure, +the good-byes were a little hurriedly spoken, and the voices were at a +little higher pitch than was usual; and when the doctor had gone, +Keith and his father went at once upstairs to the studio and shut the +door. + +Susan went out into the kitchen then and took up her neglected work. +She made a great clatter of pans and dishes, and she sang lustily at +her "mad song," and at several others. But every now and then, between +songs and rattles, she would stop and listen intently; and twice she +climbed halfway up the back stairs and stood poised, her breath +suspended, her anxious eyes on that closed studio door. + +Yet supper that night was another very ordinary occurrence, with Keith +and his father talking of the war and Susan waiting upon them with a +cheerfulness that was almost obtrusive. + +In her own room that night, however, Susan addressed an imaginary +Keith, all in the dark. + +"You're fine an' splendid, an' I love you for it, Keith, my boy," she +choked; "but you don't fool your old Susan. Your chin is up, jest as I +said 'twould be, an' you're marchin' straight ahead. But inside, your +heart is breakin'. Do you think I don't KNOW? But we ain't goin' to +let each other KNOW we know, Keith, my boy. Not much we ain't! An' I +guess if you can march straight ahead with your chin up, the rest of +us can, all right. We'll see!" + +And Susan was singing again the next morning when she did her +breakfast dishes. + +At ten o'clock Keith came into the kitchen. + +"Where's dad, Susan? He isn't in the studio and I've looked in every +room in the house and I can't find him anywhere." Keith spoke with the +aggrieved air of one who has been deprived of his just rights. + +Susan's countenance changed. "Why, Keith, don't you--that is, your +father--Didn't he tell you?" stammered Susan. + +"Tell me what?" + +"Why, that--that he was goin' to be away." + +"No, he didn't. What do you mean? Away where? How long?" + +"Why, er--working." + +"Sketching?--in this storm? Nonsense, Susan! Besides, he'd have taken +me. He always took me. Susan, what's the matter? Where IS dad?" A note +of uncertainty, almost fear, had crept into the boy's voice. "You're +keeping--SOMETHING from me." + +Susan caught her breath and threw a swift look into Keith's unseeing +eyes. Then she laughed, hysterically, a bit noisily. + +"Keepin' somethin' from you? Why, sure we ain't, boy! Didn't I jest +tell you? He's workin' down to McGuire's." + +"WORKING! Down to MCGUIRE'S!" Keith plainly did not yet understand. + +"Sure! An' he's got a real good position, too." Susan spoke jauntily, +enthusiastically. + +"But the McGuires never buy pictures," frowned Keith, "or want--" He +stopped short. Face, voice, and manner underwent a complete change. +"Susan, you don't mean that dad is CLERKING down there behind that +grocery counter!" + +Susan saw and recognized the utter horror and dismay in Keith's lace, +and quailed before it. But she managed in some way to keep her voice +still triumphant. + +"Sure he is! An' he gets real good wages, too, an'--" But Keith with a +low cry had gone. + +Before the noon dinner, however, he appeared again at the kitchen +door. His face was very white now. + +"Susan, how long has dad been doing this?" + +"Oh, quite a while. Funny, now! Hain't he ever told you?" + +"No. But there seem to be quite a number of things that you people +haven't told me." + +Susan winced, but she still held her ground jauntily. + +"Oh, yes, quite a while," she nodded cheerfully. "An' he gets-" + +"But doesn't he paint any more--at all?" interrupted the boy sharply. + +"Why, no; no, I don't know that he does," tossed Susan airily. "An' of +course, if he's found somethin' he likes better--" + +"Susan, you don't have to talk like that to me" interposed Keith +quietly. "I understand, of course. There are some things that can be +seen without--eyes." + +"Oh, but honest, Keith, he--" But once again Keith had gone and Susan +found herself talking to empty air. + +When Susan went into the dining-room that evening to wait at dinner, +she went with fear and trepidation, and she looked apprehensively into +the faces of the two men sitting opposite each other. But in the +kitchen, a few minutes later, she muttered to herself: + +"Pooh! I needn't have worried. They've got sense, both of 'em, an' +they know that what's got to be has got to be. That's all. An' that it +don't do no good to fuss. I needn't have worried." + +But Susan did worry. She did not like the look on Keith's face. She +did not like the nervous twitching of his hands. She did not like the +exaggerated cheerfulness of his manner. + +And Keith WAS cheerful. He played solitaire with his marked cards and +whistled. He worked at his raised-picture puzzles and sang snatches of +merry song. He talked with anybody who came near him--talked very fast +and laughed a great deal. But behind the whistling and the singing and +the laughter Susan detected a tense strain and nervousness that she +did not like. And at times, when she knew Keith thought himself alone, +there was an expression on his face that disturbed Susan not a little. + +But because, outwardly, it was all "cheerfulness," Susan kept her +peace; but she also kept her eyes on Keith. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI + +THE LION + + +Keith had not been home a week before it was seen that Hinsdale was +inclined to make a lion of the boy. + +Women brought him jelly and fruit, and men clapped him on the shoulder +and said, "How are you, my boy?" in voices that were not quite steady. +Young girls brought him flowers, and asked Susan if they could not +read or sing or do SOMETHING to amuse him. Children stood about the +gate and stared, talking in awe-struck whispers, happy if they could +catch a glimpse of his face at the window. + +A part of this Susan succeeded in keeping from Keith--Susan had a +well-founded belief that Keith would not care to be a lion. But a +great deal of it came to his knowledge, of course, in spite of +anything she could do. However, she told herself that she need not +have worried, for if Keith had recognized it for what it was, he made +no sign; and even Susan herself could find no fault with his behavior. +He was cordial, cheery, almost gay, outwardly. But inwardly-- + +Susan was still keeping her eyes on Keith. + +Mrs. McGuire came often to see Keith. She said she knew he would want +to hear John's letters. And there were all the old ones, besides the +new ones that came from time to time. She brought them all, and read +them to him. She talked about the young soldier, too, a great deal, to +the blind boy--She explained to Susan that she wanted to do everything +she could to get him out of himself and interest him in the world +outside; and that she didn't know any better way to do it than to tell +him of these brave soldiers who were doing something so really worth +while in the world. + +"An' he's so interested--the dear boy!" she concluded, with a sigh. +"An' so brave! I think he's the bravest thing I ever saw, Susan +Betts." + +"Yes, he is--brave," said Susan, a little shortly--so shortly that +Mrs. McGuire opened her eyes a bit, and wondered why Susan's lips had +snapped tight shut in that straight, hard line. + +"But what ails the woman?" she muttered to herself, vexedly, as she +crossed the back yard to her own door. "Wasn't she herself always +braggin' about his bein' so brave? Humph! There's no such thing as +pleasin' some folks, it seems!" finished Mrs. McGuire as she entered +her own door. + +But Mrs. McGuire was not the only frequent caller. There was Mazie +Sanborn. + +Mazie began by coming every two or three days with flowers and fudge. +Then she brought the latest novel one day and suggested that she read +it to Keith. + +Susan was skeptical of this, even fearful. She had not forgotten +Keith's frenzied avoidance of such callers in the old days. But to her +surprise now Keith welcomed Mazie joyously--so joyously that Susan +began to suspect that behind the joyousness lay an eagerness to +welcome anything that would help him to forget himself. + +She was the more suspicious of this during the days that followed, as +she saw this same nervous eagerness displayed every time any one +called at the house. Susan's joy then at Keith's gracious response to +visitors' attentions changed to a vague uneasiness. Behind and beyond +it all lay an intangible something upon which Susan could not place +her finger, but which filled her heart with distrust. And so still she +kept her eyes on Keith. + +In June Dorothy Parkman came to Hinsdale. She came at once to see +Susan. But she would only step inside the hall, and she spoke low and +hurriedly, looking fearfully toward the closed doors beyond the +stairway. + +"I HAD to come--to see how he was," she began, a little breathlessly. +"And I wanted to ask you if you thought I could do any good or--or be +any help to him, either as Miss Stewart or Dorothy Parkman. Only I--I +suppose I would HAVE to be Dorothy Parkman now. I couldn't keep the +other up forever, of course. But I don't know how to tell--" She +stopped, and looked again fearfully toward the closed doors. "Susan, +how--how IS he?" she finished unsteadily. + +"He's well--very well." + +"He sees people--Mazie says he sees everybody now." + +"Yes, oh, yes, he sees people." + +"That's why I thought perhaps he wouldn't mind ME now--I mean the real +me," faltered the girl wistfully. "Maybe." Susan's sigh and frown +expressed doubt. + +"But he's real brave," challenged the girl quickly. "Mazie SAID he +was." + +"I know. Everybody says--he's brave." There was an odd constraint in +Susan's voice, but the girl was too intent on her own problem to +notice it. + +"And that's why I hoped--about me, you know--that he wouldn't mind--now. +And, of course, it can't make any difference--about his eyes, for +he doesn't need father, or--or any one now." Her voice broke. "Oh, +Susan, I want to help, some way, if I can! WOULD he see me, do you +think?" + +"He ought to. He sees everybody else." + +"I know. Mazie says--" + +"Does Mazie know about you?" interrupted Susan. "I mean, about your +being 'Miss Stewart'?" + +"A little, but not much. I told her once that he 'most always called +me 'Miss Stewart,' but I never made anything of it, and I never told +her how much I saw of him out home. Some way, I--" She stopped short, +with a quick indrawing of her breath. In the doorway down the hall +stood Keith. + +"Susan, I thought I heard--WAS Miss Stewart here?" he demanded +excitedly. + +With only the briefest of hesitations and a half-despairing, +half-relieved look into Susan's startled eyes, the young girl hurried +forward. + +"Indeed I'm here," she cried gayly, giving a warm clasp to his eagerly +outstretched hand "How do you do? Susan was just saying--." + +But Susan was gone with upflung hands and a look that said "No, you +don't rake me into this thing, young lady!" as plainly as if she had +spoken the words themselves. + +In the living-room a minute later, Keith began eager questioning. + +"When did you come?" + +"Yesterday." + +"And you came to see me the very next day! Weren't you good? You knew +how I wanted to see you." + +"Oh, but I didn't," she laughed a little embarrassedly. "You're at +home now, and you have all your old friends, and--" + +"But they're not you. There's not any one like you," cut in the youth +fervently. "And now you're going to stay a long time, aren't you?" + +"Y-yes, several weeks, probably." + +"Good! And you'll come every day to see me?" + +"W-well, as to that-" + +"It's too much to ask, of course," broke off Keith contritely. "And, +truly, I don't want to impose on you." + +"No, no, it isn't that," protested the girl quickly. "It's only--There +are so many--" + +"But I told you there isn't anybody like you, Miss Stewart. There +isn't any one here that UNDERSTANDS--like you. And it was you who +first taught me to do--so many things." His voice faltered. + +[Illustration: "YOU'VE HELPED MORE--THAN YOU'LL EVER KNOW"] + +He paused, wet his lips, then plunged on hurriedly. "Miss Stewart, I +don't say this sort of thing very often. I never said it before--to +anybody. But I want you to know that I understood and appreciated just +what you were doing all those weeks for me out there at the +sanatorium. And it was the WAY you did it, with never a word or a hint +that I was different. You did things, and you made me do things, +without reminding me all the time that I was blind. I shall never +forget that first day when you told me dad would want to hear from me; +and then, before I could say a word, you put that paper in my hands, +and my fingers fell on those lines that I could feel. And how I +blessed you for not TELLING me those lines were there! Don't you see? +Everybody here, that comes to see me, TELLS me--the lines are there." + +"Yes, I--know." The girl's voice was low, a little breathless. + +"And that's why I need you so much. If anybody in the whole world can +make me forget for a minute, you can. You will come?" + +"Why, of course, I'll come, and be glad to. You know I will. And I'm +so glad if I've helped--any!" + +"You've helped more--than you'll ever know. But, come--look! I've got +a dandy new game here." And Keith, very obviously to hide the shake in +his voice and the emotion in his face, turned gayly to a little stand +near him and picked up a square cardboard box. + +Half an hour later, Dorothy Parkman, passing through the hall on her +way to the outer door, was waylaid by Susan. + +"Sh-h! Don't speak here, but come with me," she whispered, leading the +way through the diningroom. In the kitchen she stopped and turned +eagerly. "Well, did you tell him?" she demanded. + +Miss Dorothy shook her head, mutely, despairingly. + +"You mean he don't know yet that you're Dorothy Parkman?" + +"I mean just that." + +"But, child alive, he'll find out--he can't help finding out--now." + +"I know it. But I just couldn't tell him--I COULDN'T, Susan. I tried +to do it two or three times. Indeed, I did. But the words just +wouldn't come. And now I don't know when I can tell him." + +"But he was tickled to death to see you. He showed it, Miss Dorothy." + +"I know." A soft pink suffused the young girl's face. "But it was +'Miss Stewart' he was glad to see, not Dorothy Parkman. And, after the +things he said--" She stopped and looked back over her shoulder toward +the room she had just left. + +"But, Miss Dorothy, don't you see? It'll be all right, now. You've +SHOWN him that you don't mind being with blind folks a mite. So now he +won't care a bit when he knows you are Dorothy Parkman." + +But the girl shook her head again. + +"Yes, I know. He might not mind that part, PERHAPS; but I know he'd +mind the deceit all these long months, and it wouldn't be easy to--to +make him understand. He'd never forgive it--I know he wouldn't--to +think I'd taken advantage of his not being able to see." + +"Nonsense! Of course he would." + +"He wouldn't. You don't know. Just to-day he said something about--about +some one who had tried to deceive him in a little thing, because +he was blind; and I could see how bitter he was." + +"But what ARE you goin' to do?" + +"I don't know, Susan. It's harder than ever now," almost moaned the +girl. + +"You're COMIN' AGAIN?" + +"Yes, oh, yes. I shall come as long as he'll let me. I know he wants +me to. I know I HAVE helped a little. He spoke--beautifully about that +to-day. But, whether, after he finds out--" Her voice choked into +silence and she turned her head quite away. + +"There, there, dear, don't you fret," Susan comforted her. "You jest +go home and think no more about it. + + When thinkin' won't mend it, + Then thinkin' won't end it. + +So what's the use? When you get ready, you jest come again; an' you +keep a-comin', too. It'll all work out right. You see if it don't." + +"Thank you, Susan. Oh, I'll come as long as I can," sighed the girl, +turning to go. "But I'm not so sure how it'll turn out," she finished +with a wistful smile over her shoulder as she opened the door. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII + +HOW COULD YOU, MAZIE? + + +As Miss Dorothy herself had said, it could not, of course, continue. +She came once, and once again to see Keith; and in spite of her +efforts to make her position clear to him, her secret still remained +her own. Then, on the third visit, the dreaded disclosure came, +naturally, and in the simplest, most unexpected way; yet in a way that +would most certainly have been the last choice of Miss Dorothy herself +could she have had aught to say about it. + +The two, Keith and Dorothy, had had a wonderful hour over a book that +Dorothy had brought to read. They had been sitting on the porch, and +Dorothy had risen to go when there came a light tread on the front +walk and Mazie Sanborn tripped up the porch steps. + +"Well, Dorothy Parkman, is this where you were?" she cried gayly. "I +was hunting all over the house for you half an hour ago." + +"DOROTHY PARKMAN!" Keith was on his feet. His face had grown very +white. + +Dorothy, too, her eyes on Keith's face, had grown very white; yet she +managed to give a light laugh, and her voice matched Mazie's own for +gayety. + +"Were you? Well, I was right here. But I'm going now." + +"You! but--Miss Stewart!" Keith's colorless lips spoke the words just +above his breath. + +"Why, Keith Burton, what's the matter?" laughed Mazie. "You look as if +you'd seen a ghost. I mean--oh, forgive that word, Keith," she broke +off in light apology. "I'm always forgetting, and talking as if you +could really SEE. But you looked so funny, and you brought out that +'Dorothy Parkman' with such a surprised air. Just as if you didn't +ever call her that in the old school days, Keith Burton! Oh, Dorothy +told me you called her 'Miss Stewart' a lot now; but--" + +"Yes, I have called her 'Miss Stewart' quite a lot lately," interposed +Keith, in a voice so quietly self-controlled that even Dorothy herself +was almost deceived. But not quite. Dorothy saw the clenched muscles +and white knuckles of his hands as he gripped the chair-back before +him; and she knew too much to expect him to offer his hand in good-bye. +So she backed away, and she still spoke lightly, inconsequently, +though she knew her voice was shaking, as she made her adieus. + +"Well, good-bye, I must be going now, sure. I'll be over to-morrow, +though, to finish the book. Good-bye." + +"Good-bye," said Keith. + +And Dorothy wondered if Mazie noticed that he quite omitted a polite +"Come again," and if Mazie saw that as he said the terse "Good-bye" he +put both hands suddenly and resolutely behind his back. Dorothy saw +it, and at home, long hours later she was still crying over it. + +She went early to the Burtons' the next forenoon. + +"I came to finish the book I was reading to Mr. Keith," she told Susan +brightly, as her ring was answered. "I thought I'd come early before +anybody else got here." + +She would have stepped in, but Susan's ample figure still barred the +way. + +"Well, now, that's too bad!" Susan's voice expressed genuine concern +and personal disappointment. "Ain't it a shame? Keith said he wa'n't +feelin' nohow well this mornin', an' that he didn't want to see no +one. An' under no circumstances not to let no one in to see him. But +maybe if I told him't was you--" + +"No, no, don't--don't do that!" cried the girl hurriedly. "I--I'll +come again some other time." + +On the street a minute later she whispered tremulously: "He did it on +purpose, of course. He KNEW I would come this morning! But he can't +keep it up forever! He'll HAVE to see me some time. And when he does-- +Oh, if only Mazie Sanborn hadn't blurted it out like that! Why didn't +I tell him? Why didn't I tell him? But I will tell him. He can't keep +this up forever." + +When on a second and a third and a fourth morning, however, Dorothy +had found Susan's figure barring the way, and had received the same +distressed "He says he won't see no one, Miss Dorothy," from Susan's +plainly troubled lips, Dorothy began to think Keith did mean to keep +it up forever. + +"But what IS it, Susan?" she faltered. "Is he sick, really sick?" + +"I don't know, Miss Dorothy," frowned Susan. "But I don't like the +looks of it, anyhow. He says he ain't sick--not physicianly sick; but +he jest don't want to talk an' see folks. An' he's been like that +'most a week now. An' I'm free to confess I don't like it." + +"But what does he do--all day?" asked the girl. + +"Nothin', that I can see," sighed Susan profoundly. "Oh, he plays that +solitary some, an' putters a little with some of his raised books; but +mostly he jest sits still an' thinks. An' I don't like it. If only his +father was here. But with him gone peddlin' molasses, an' no one +'lowed into the house, there ain't anything for him to do but to +think. An' 'tain't right nor good for him. I've watched him an' I +know." + +"But he used to see people, Susan." + +"I know it. He saw everybody." + +"Do you know why he won't--now?" asked the girl a little faintly. + +"I hain't the faintest inception of an idea. It came as sudden as +that," declared Susan, snapping her finger. + +"Then he hasn't said anything special about not wanting to see--me?" + +"Why, no. He--Do you mean--HAS he found out?" demanded Susan, +interrupting herself excitedly. + +"Yes. He found out last Monday afternoon. Mazie ran up on to the porch +and called me by name right out. Oh, Susan, it was awful. I shall +never forget the look on that boy's face as long as I live." + +"Lan' sakes! MONDAY!" breathed Susan. "An' Tuesday he began refusin' +to see folks. Then 'course that was it. But why won't he see other +folks? They hain't anything to do with you." + +"I don't know--unless he didn't want to tell you specially not to let +me in, and so he said not to let anybody in." + +"Was he awful mad?" + +"It wasn't so much anger as it was grief and hurt and--oh, I can't +express what it was. But I saw it; and I never shall forget it. You +see, to have it blurted out to him like that without any warning--and +of course he couldn't understand." + +"But didn't you explain things--how 'twas, in the first place?" + +She shook her head. "I couldn't--not with Mazie there. I said I'd come +the next morning to--to finish the book. I thought he'd understand I +was going to explain then. He probably did--and that's why he won't +let me in. He doesn't want any explanations," sighed the girl +tremulously. + +"Well, he ought to want 'em," asserted Susan with vigor. "'Tain't fair +nor right nor sensible for him to act like this, makin' a mountain out +of an ant-hill. I declare, Miss Dorothy, he ought to be made to see +you." + +The girl flushed and drew back. + +"Most certainly not, Susan! I--I am not in the habit of MAKING people +see me, when they don't wish to. Do you suppose I'm going to beg and +tease: 'PLEASE won't you let me see you?' Hardly! He need not worry. I +shall not come again." + +"Oh, Miss Dorothy!" remonstrated Susan. + +"Why, of course I won't, Susan!" cried the girl. "Do you suppose I'm +going to keep him from seeing other people just because he's afraid +he'll have to let me in, too? Nonsense, Susan! Even you must admit I +cannot allow that. You may tell Mr. Keith, please, that he may feel no +further uneasiness. I shall not trouble him again." + +"Oh, Miss Dorothy!" begged Susan agitatedly, once more. + +But Miss Dorothy, with all the hurt dignity of her eighteen years, +turned haughtily away, leaving Susan impotent and distressed, looking +after her. + +Two minutes later Susan sought Keith in the living-room. Her whole +self spelt irate determination--but Keith could not see that. Keith, +listless and idle-handed, sat in his favorite chair by the window. + +"Dorothy Parkman jest rang the bell," began Susan, "an'-" + +"But I said I'd see no one," interrupted Keith, instantly alert. + +"That's what I told her, an' she's gone." + +"Oh, all right." Keith relaxed into his old listlessness. + +"An' she said to please tell you she'd trouble you no further, so you +might let in the others now as soon as you please." + +Keith sat erect in his chair with a jerk. + +"What did she mean by that?" + +"I guess you don't need me to tell you," observed Susan grimly. + +With a shrug and an irritable gesture Keith settled back in his chair. + +"I don't care to discuss it, Susan. I don't wish to see ANY one. We'll +let it go at that, if you please," he said. + +"But I don't please!" Susan was in the room now, close to Keith's +chair. Her face was quivering with emotion. "Keith, won't you listen +to reason? It ain't like you a mite to sit back like this an' refuse +to see a nice little body like Dorothy Parkman, what's been so kind--" + +"Susan!" Keith was sitting erect again. His face was white, and +carried a stern anguish that Susan had never seen before. "I don't +care to discuss Miss Parkman with you or with anybody else. Neither do +I care to discuss the fact that I thoroughly understand, of course, +that you, or she, or anybody else, can fool me into believing anything +you please; and I can't--help myself." + +"No, no, Keith, don't take it like that--please don't!" + +"Is there any other way I CAN take it? Do you think 'Miss Stewart' +could have made such a fool of me if I'd had EYES to see Dorothy +Parkman?" + +"But she was only tryin' to HELP you, an'--" + +"I don't want to be 'helped'!" stormed the boy hotly. "Did it ever +occur to you, Susan, that I might sometimes like to HELP somebody +myself, instead of this everlastingly having somebody help me?" + +"But you do help. You help me," asserted Susan feverishly, working her +nervous fingers together. "An' you'd help me more if you'd only let +folks in to see you, an'--" + +"All right, all right," interrupted Keith testily. "Let them in. Let +everybody in. I don't care. What's the difference? But, please, +PLEASE, Susan, stop talking any more about it all now." + +And Susan stopped. There were times when Susan knew enough to stop, +and this was one of them. + +But she took him at his word, and when Mrs. McGuire came the next day +with a letter from her John, Susan ushered her into the living-room +where Keith was sitting alone. And Keith welcomed her with at least a +good imitation of his old heartiness. + +Mrs. McGuire said she had such a funny letter to read to-day. She knew +he'd enjoy it, and Susan would, too, particularly the part that John +had quoted from something that had been printed by the British +soldiers in France and circulated among their comrades in the trenches +and hospitals, and everywhere. John had written it off on a separate +piece of paper, and this was it: + +Don't worry: there's nothing to worry about. + +You have two alternatives: either you are mobilized or you are not. If +not, you have nothing to worry about. + +If you are mobilized, you have two alternatives: you are in camp or at +the front. If you are in camp, you have nothing to worry about. + +If you are at the front, you have two alternatives: either you are on +the fighting line or in reserve. If in reserve, you have nothing to +worry about. + +If you are on the fighting line, you have two alternatives: either you +fight or you don't. If you don't, you have nothing to worry about. + +If you do, you have two alternatives: either you get hurt or you +don't. If you don't, you have nothing to worry about. + +If you are hurt, you have two alternatives: either you are slightly +hurt or badly. If slightly, you have nothing to worry about. + +If badly, you have two alternatives: either you recover or you don't. +If you recover, you have nothing to worry about. If you don't, and +have followed my advice clear through, you have done with worry +forever. + +Mrs. McGuire was in a gale of laughter by the time she had finished +reading this; so, too, was Susan. Keith also was laughing, but his +laughter did not have the really genuine ring to it--which fact did +not escape Susan. + +"Well, anyhow, he let Mis' McGuire in--an' that's somethin'," she +muttered to herself, as Mrs. McGuire took her departure. "Besides, he +talked to her real pleasant--an' that's more." + +As the days passed, others came, also, and Keith talked with them. He +even allowed Dorothy Parkman to be admitted one day. + +[Illustration: HE GAVE HER ALMOST NO CHANCE TO SAY ANYTHING HERSELF] + +Dorothy had not come until after long urging on the part of Susan and +the assurance that Keith had said he would see her. Even then nothing +would have persuaded her, she told Susan, except the great hope that +she could say something, in some way, that would set her right in +Keith's eyes. + +So with fear and trembling and with a painful embarrassment on her +face, but with a great hope in her heart, she entered the room and +came straight to Keith's side. + +For a moment the exultation of a fancied success sent a warm glow all +through her, for Keith had greeted her pleasantly and even extended +his hand. But almost at once the glow faded and the great hope died in +her heart, for she saw that even while she touched his hand, he was +yet miles away from her. + +He laughed and talked with her--oh, yes; but he laughed too much and +talked too much. He gave her almost no chance to say anything herself. +And what he said was so inconsequential and so far removed from +anything intimately concerning themselves, that the girl found it +utterly impossible to make the impassioned explanation which she had +been saying over and over again all night to herself, and from which +she had hoped so much. + +Yet at the last, just before she bade him good-bye, she did manage to +say something. But in her disappointment and excitement and +embarrassment, her words were blurted out haltingly and ineffectually, +and they were not at all the ones she had practiced over and over to +herself in the long night watches; nor were they received as she had +palpitatingly pictured that they would be, with Keith first stern and +hurt, and then just dear and forgiving and UNDERSTANDING. + +Keith was neither stern nor hurt. He still laughed pleasantly, and he +tossed her whole labored explanation aside with a light: "Certainly--of +course--to be sure--not at all! You did quite right, I assure you!" +And then he remarked that it was a warm day, wasn't it? And Dorothy +found herself hurrying down the Burton front walk with burning cheeks +and a chagrined helplessness that left her furious and with an +ineffably cheap feeling--yet not able to put her finger on any +discourteous flaw in Keith's punctilious politeness. + +"I wish I'd never said a word--not a word," she muttered hotly to +herself as she hurried down the street. "I wonder if he thinks--I'll +ever open my head to him about it again. Well, he needn't--worry! +But--oh, Keith, Keith, how could you?" she choked brokenly. Then +abruptly she turned down a side street, lest Mazie Sanborn, coming +toward her, should see the big tears that were rolling down her cheeks. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + +JOHN McGUIRE + + +So imperative was the knock at the kitchen door at six o'clock that +July morning that Susan almost fell down the back stairs in her haste +to obey the summons. + +"Lan' sakes, Mis' McGuire, what a start you did give--why, Mis' +McGuire, what is it?" she interrupted herself, aghast, as Mrs. +McGuire, white-faced and wild-eyed, swept past her and began to pace +up and down the kitchen floor, moaning frenziedly: + +"It's come--it's come--I knew't would come. Oh, what shall I do? What +shall I do?" + +"What's come?" + +"Oh, John, John, my boy, my boy!" + +"You don't mean he's--dead?" + +"No, no, worse than that, worse than that!" moaned the woman, wringing +her hands. "Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do?" + +With a firm grasp Susan caught the twisting fingers and gently but +resolutely forced their owner into a chair. + +"Do? You'll jest calm yourself right down an' tell me all about it, +Mis' McGuire. This rampagin' 'round the kitchen like this don't do no +sort of good, an' it's awful on your nerves. An' furthermore an' +moreover, no matter what't is that ails your John, it can't be worse'n +death; for while there's life there's hope, you know." + +"But it is, it is, I tell you," sobbed Mrs. McGuire still swaying her +body back and forth. "Susan, my boy is--BLIND." With the utterance of +the dread word Mrs. McGuire stiffened suddenly into rigid horror, her +eyes staring straight into Susan's. + +"MIS' MCGUIRE!" breathed Susan in dismay; then hopefully, "But maybe +'twas a mistake." + +The woman shook her head. She went back to her swaying from side to +side. + +"No, 'twas a dispatch. It came this mornin'. Just now. Mr. McGuire was +gone, an' there wasn't anybody there but the children, an' they're +asleep. That's why I came over. I HAD to. I had to talk to some one!" + +"Of course, you did! An' you shall, you poor lamb. You shall tell me +all about it. What was it? What happened?" + +"I don't know. I just know he's blind, an' that he's comin' home. He's +on his way now. My John--blind! Oh, Susan, what shall I do, what shall +I do?" + +"Then he probably ain't sick, or hurt anywheres else, if he's on his +way home--leastways, he ain't hurt bad. You can be glad for that, Mis' +McGuire." + +"I don't know, I don't know. Maybe he is. It didn't say. It just said +blinded," chattered Mrs. McGuire feverishly. "They get them home just +as soon as they can when they're blinded. We were readin' about it +only yesterday in the paper--how they did send 'em home right away. +Oh, how little I thought that my son John would be one of 'em--my +John!" + +"But your John ain't the only one, Mis' McGuire. There's other Johns, +too. Look at our Keith here." + +"I know, I know." + +"An' I wonder how he'll take this--about your John?" + +"HE'LL know what it means," choked Mrs. McGuire. + +"He sure will--an' he'll feel bad. I know that. He ain't hisself, +anyway, these days." + +"He ain't?" Mrs. McGuire asked the question abstractedly, her mind +plainly on her own trouble; but Susan, intent on HER trouble, did not +need even the question to spur her tongue. + +"No, he ain't. Oh, he's brave an' cheerful. He's awful cheerful, even +cheerfuler than he was a month ago. He's too cheerful, Mis' McGuire. +There's somethin' back of it I don't like. He--" + +But Mrs. McGuire was not listening. Wringing her hands she had sprung +to her feet and was pacing the floor again, moaning: "Oh, what shall I +do, what shall I do?" A minute later, only weeping afresh at Susan's +every effort to comfort her, she stumbled out of the kitchen and +hurried across the yard to her own door. + +Watching her from the window, Susan drew a long sigh. + +"I wonder how he WILL take--But, lan' sakes, this ain't gettin' my +breakfast," she ejaculated with a hurried glance at the clock on the +little shelf over the stove. + +There was nothing, apparently, to distinguish breakfast that morning +from a dozen other breakfasts that had gone before. Keith and his +father talked cheerfully of various matters, and Susan waited upon +them with her usual briskness. If Susan was more silent than usual, +and if her eyes sought Keith's face more frequently than was her +habit, no one, apparently, noticed it. Susan did fancy, however, that +she saw a new tenseness in Keith's face, a new nervousness in his +manner; but that, perhaps, was because she was watching him so +closely, and because he was so constantly in her mind, owing to her +apprehension as to how he would take the news of John McGuire's +blindness. + +From the very first Susan had determined not to tell her news until +after Mr. Burton had left the house. She could not have explained it +even to herself, but she had a feeling that it would be better to tell +Keith when he was alone. She planned, also, to tell him casually, as +it were, in the midst of other conversation--not as if it were the one +thing on her mind. In accordance with this, therefore, she forced +herself to finish her dishes and to set her kitchen in order before +she sought Keith in the living-room. + +But Keith was not in the living-room; neither was he on the porch or +anywhere in the yard. + +With a troubled frown on her face Susan climbed the stairs to the +second floor. Keith's room was silent, and empty, so far as human +presence was concerned. So, too, was the studio, and every other room +on that floor. + +At the front of the attic stairs Susan hesitated. The troubled frown +on her face deepened as she glanced up the steep, narrow stairway. + +She did not like to have Keith go off by himself to the attic, and +already now twice before she had found him up there, poking in the +drawers of an old desk that had been his father's. He had shut the +drawers quickly and had laughingly turned aside her questions when she +had asked him what in the world he was doing up there. And he had got +up immediately and had gone downstairs with her. But she had not liked +the look on his face. And to-day, as she hesitated at the foot of the +stairs, she was remembering that look. But for only a moment. +Resolutely then she lifted her chin, ran up the stairs, and opened the +attic door. + +Over at the desk by the window there was a swift movement--but not so +swift that Susan did not see the revolver pushed under some loose +papers. + +"Is that you, Susan?" asked Keith sharply. "Yes, honey. I jest came up +to get somethin'." + +Susan's face was white like paper, and her hands were cold and +shaking, but her voice, except for a certain breathlessness, was +cheerfully steady. With more or less noise and with a running fire of +inconsequent comment, she rummaged among the trunks and boxes, +gradually working her way to, ward the desk where Keith still sat. + +At the desk, with a sudden swift movement, she thrust the papers to +one side and dropped her hand on the revolver. At the same moment +Keith's arm shot out and his hand fell, covering hers. + +She saw his young face flush and harden and his mouth set into stern +lines. + +"Susan, you'll be good enough, please, to take your hand off that," he +said then sharply. + +There was a moment's tense silence. Susan's eyes, agonized and +pleading, were on his face. But Keith could not see that. He could +only hear her words a moment later--light words, with a hidden laugh +in them, yet spoken with that same curious breathlessness. + +"Faith, honey, an' how can I, with your own hand holdin' mine so +tight?" + +Keith removed his hand instantly. His set face darkened. + +"This is not a joke, Susan, and I shall have to depend on your honor +to let that revolver stay where it is. Unfortunately I am unable to +SEE whether I am obeyed or not." + +It was Susan's turn to flush. She drew back at once, leaving the +weapon uncovered on the desk between them. + +"I'm not takin' the pistol, Keith." The laugh was all gone from +Susan's voice now. So, too, was the breathlessness. The voice was +steady, grave, but very gentle. "We take matches an' pizen an' knives +away from CHILDREN--not from grown men, Keith. The pistol is right +where you can reach it--if you want it." + +[Illustration: KEITH'S ARM SHOT OUT AND HIS HAND FELL, COVERING HERS] + +She saw the fingers of Keith's hand twitch and tighten. Otherwise +there was no answer. After a moment she went on speaking. + +"But let me say jest this: 'tain't like you to be a--quitter, Keith." +She saw him wince, but she did not wait for him to speak. "An' after +you've done this thing, there ain't any one in the world goin' to be +so sorry as you'll be. You mark my words." + +It was like a sharp knife cutting a taut cord. The tense muscles +relaxed and Keith gave a sudden laugh. True, it was a short laugh, and +a bitter one; but it was a laugh. + +"You forget, Susan. If--if I carried that out I wouldn't be in the +world--to care." + +"Shucks! You'd be in some world, Keith Burton, an' you know it. An' +you'd feel nice lookin' down on the mess you'd made of THIS world, +wouldn't you?" + +"Well, if I was LOOKING, I'd be SEEING, wouldn't I?" cut in the youth +grimly. "Don't forget, Susan, that I'd be SEEING, please." + +"Seein' ain't everything, Keith Burton. Jest remember that. There is +some things you'd rather be blind than see. An' that's one of 'em. +Besides, seein' ain't the only sensible you've got, an' there's such a +lot of things you can do, an'--" + +"Oh, yes, I know," interrupted Keith fiercely, flinging out both his +hands. "I can feel a book, and eat my dinner, and I can hear the +shouts of the people cheering the boys that go marching by my door. +But I'm tired of it all. I tell you I can't stand it--I CAN'T, Susan. +Yes, I know that's a cheap way out of it," he went on, after a choking +pause, with a wave of his hand toward the revolver on the desk;" and a +cowardly one, too. I know all that. And maybe I wouldn't have--have +done it to-day, even if you hadn't come. I found it last week, and +it--fascinated me. It seemed such an easy way out of it. Since then +I've been up here two or three times just to--to feel of it. Somehow I +liked to know it was here, and that, if--if I just couldn't stand +things another minute-- + +"But--I've tried to be decent, honest I have. But I'm tired of being +amused and 'tended to like a ten-year-old boy. I don't want flowers +and jellies and candies brought in to me. I don't want to read and +play solitaire and checkers week in and week out. I want to be over +there, doing a man's work. Look at Ted, and Tom, and Jack Green, and +John McGuire!" + +"John McGuire!" It was a faltering cry from Susan, but Keith did not +even hear. + +"What are they doing, and what am I doing? Yet you people expect me to +sit here contented with a dice-box and a deck of playing-cards, and be +GLAD I can do that much. Oh, well, I suppose I ought to be. But when I +sit here alone day after day and think and think--" + +"But, Keith, we don't want you to do that," interposed Susan +feverishly. "Now there's Miss Dorothy--if you'd only let her--" + +"But I tell you I don't want to be babied and pitied and 'tended to by +young women who are SORRY for me. _I_ want to do the helping part of +the time. And if I see a girl I--I could care for, I want to be able +to ask her like a man to marry me; and then if she says 'yes,' I want +to be able to take care of her myself--not have her take care of me +and marry me out of pity and feed me fudge and flowers! And there's--dad." + +Keith's voice broke and stopped. Susan, watching his impassioned face, +wet her lips and swallowed convulsively. Then Keith began again. + +"Susan, do you know the one big thing that drives me up here every +time, in spite of myself? It's the thought of--dad. How do you suppose +I feel to think of dad peddling peas and beans and potatoes down to +McGuire's grocery store?--dad!" + +Susan lifted her head defiantly. + +"Well, now look a-here, Keith Burton, let me tell you that peddlin' +peas an' beans an' potatoes is jest as honorary as paintin' pictures, +an'--" + +"I'm not saying it isn't," cut in the boy incisively. "I'm merely +saying that, as I happen to know, he prefers to paint pictures--and I +prefer to have him. And he'd be doing it this minute--if it wasn't for +his having to support me, and you know it, Susan." + +"Well, what of it? It don't hurt him any." + +"It hurts me, Susan. And when I think of all the things he hoped--of +me. I was going to be Jerry and Ned and myself; and I was going to +make him so proud, Susan, so proud! I was going to make up to him all +that he had lost. All day under the trees up on the hill, I used to +lie and dream of what I was going to be some day--the great pictures I +was going to paint--for dad. The great fame that was going to come to +me--for dad. The money I was going to earn--for dad: I saw dad, old +and white-haired, leaning on me. I saw the old house restored--all the +locks and keys and sagging blinds, the cracked ceilings and tattered +wallpaper--all made fresh and new. And dad so proud and happy in it +all--so proud and happy that perhaps he'd think I really had made up +for Jerry and Ned, and his own lost hopes. + +"And, now, look at me! Useless, worse than useless--all my life a +burden to him and to everybody else. Susan, I can't stand it. I CAN'T. +That's why I want to end it all. It would be so simple--such an easy +way--out." + +"Yes, 'twould--for quitters. Quitters always take easy ways out. But +you ain't no quitter, Keith Burton. Besides, 't wouldn't end it. You +know that. 'Twould jest be shuttin' the door of this room an' openin' +the one to the next. You've had a good Christian bringin' up, Keith +Burton, an' you know as well as I do that your eternal, immoral soul +ain't goin' to be snuffled out of existence by no pistol shot, no +matter how many times you pull the jigger." + +Keith laughed--and with the laugh his tense muscles relaxed. + +"All right, Susan," he shrugged a little grimly. "I'll concede your +point. You made it--perhaps better than you know. But--well, it isn't +so pleasant always to be the hook, you know," he finished bitterly. + +"The--hook?" frowned Susan. + +Keith laughed again grimly. + +"Perhaps you've forgotten--but I haven't. I heard you talking to Mrs. +McGuire one day. You said that everybody was either a hook or an eye, +and that more than half the folks were hooks hanging on to somebody +else. And that's why some eyes had more than their share of hooks +hanging on to them. You see--I remembered. I knew then, when you said +it, that I was a hook, and--" + +"Keith Burton, I never thought of you when I said that," interrupted +Susan agitatedly. + +"Perhaps not; but _I_ did. Why, Susan, of course I'm a hook--an old, +bent, rusty hook. But I can hang on--oh, yes, I can hang on--to +anybody that will let me! But, Susan, don't you see?--sometimes it +seems as if I'd give the whole world if just for once I could feel +that I--that some one was hanging on to me! that I was of some use +somewhere." + +"An' so you're goin' to be, honey. I know you be," urged Susan +eagerly. "Just remember all them fellers that wrote books an' give +lecturing an'--" + +"Oh, yes, I know," interposed Keith, with a faint smile. "You were a +good old soul, Susan, to read me all those charming tales, and I +understood of course, what you were doing it for. You wanted me to go +and do likewise. But I couldn't write a book to save my soul, Susan, +and my voice would stick in my throat at the second word of a +'lecturing.'" + +"But there'll be somethin', Keith, I know there'll be somethin'. God +never locked up the doors of your eyes without givin' you the key to +some other door. It's jest that you hain't found it yet." + +"Perhaps. I certainly haven't found it--that's sure," retorted the lad +bitterly. "And just why He saw fit to send me this blindness--" + +"We don't have to know," interposed Susan quickly; "an' questionin' +about it don't settle nothin', anyhow. If we've got it, we've got it, +an' if it's somethin' we can't possibly help, the only questionin' +worth anything then is how are we goin' to stand it. You see, there's +more'n one way of standin' things." + +"Yes, I know there is." Keith stirred restlessly in his seat. + +"An' some ways is better than others." + +"There, there, Susan, I know just what you're going to say, and it's +all very true, of course," cried Keith, stirring still more +restlessly. "But you see T don't happen to feel like hearing it just +now. Oh, yes, I know I've got lots to be thankful for. I can hear, and +feel, and taste, and walk; and I should be glad for all of them. And I +am, of course. I should declare that all's well with the world, and +that both sides of the street are sunny, and that there isn't any +shadow anywhere. There, you see! I know all that you would say, Susan, +and I've said it, so as to save you the trouble." + +"Humph!" commented Susan, bridling a little; then suddenly, she gave a +sly chuckle. "That's all very well an' good, Master Keith Burton, but +there's one more thing I would have said if I was doin' the sayin'!" + +"Well?" + +"About that both sides of the street bein' sunny--it seems to me that +the man what says, yes, he knows one side is shady an' troublous, but +that he thinks it'll be healthier an' happier for him an' everybody +else 'round him if he walks on the sunny side, an' then WALKS THERE--it +seems to me he's got the spots all knocked off that feller what +says there AIN'T no shady side!" + +Keith gave a low laugh--a laugh more nearly normal than Susan had +heard him give for several days. + +"All right, Susan, I'll accept your amendment and--we'll let it go +that one side is shady, and that I'm supposed to determinedly pick the +sunny side. Anything more?" + +"M-more?" + +"That you came up to say to me--yes. You know I have just saved you +the trouble of saying part of it." + +"Oh!" Susan laughed light-heartedly. (This was Keith--her Keith that +she knew.) "No that's all I--" She stopped short in dismay! All the +color and lightness disappeared from her face, leaving it suddenly +white and drawn. "That is," she faltered, "there was somethin' else--I +was goin' to say, about--about John McGuire. He--" + +"I don't care to hear it." Keith had frozen instantly into frigid +aloofness. Stern lines had come to his boyish mouth. + +"But--but, Keith, Mrs. McGuire came over to-" + +"To read another of those precious letters, of course," cut in Keith +angrily, "but I tell you I don't want to hear it. Do you suppose a +caged bird likes to hear of the woods and fields and tree-tops while +he's tied to a three-inch swing between two gilt bars? Well, hardly! +There's lots that I do have to stand, Susan, but I don't have to stand +that." + +Susan caught her breath with a half sob. + +"But, Keith, I wasn't going to tell you of--of woods an' fields an' +tree-tops this time. You see--now he's in a cage himself." + +"What do you mean?" + +"He's coming home. He's--blind." + +Keith leaped from his chair. + +"BLIND? JOHN McGUIRE?" + +"Yes." + +"Oh-h-h!" Long years of past suffering and of future woe filled the +short little word to bursting, as Keith dropped back into his chair. +For a moment he sat silent, his whole self held rigid. Then, +unsteadily he asked the question: + +"What--happened?" + +"They don't know. It was a dispatch that came this mornin'. He was +blinded, an' is on his way home. That's all." + +"That's--enough." + +"Yes, I knew you'd--understand." + +"Yes, I do--understand." + +Susan hesitated. Keith still sat, with his unseeing gaze straight +ahead, his body tense and motionless. On the desk within reach lay the +revolver. Cautiously Susan half extended her hand toward it, then drew +it back. She glanced again at Keith's absorbed face, then turned and +made her way quietly down the stairs. + +At the bottom of the attic flight she glanced back. "He won't touch it +now, I'm sure," she breathed. "An', anyhow, we only take knives an' +pizen away from children--not grown men!" + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + +AS SUSAN SAW IT + + +It was the town talk, of course--the home-coming of John McGuire. Men +gathered on street corners and women clustered about back-yard fences +and church doorways. Children besieged their parents with breathless +questions, and repeated to each other in awe-struck whispers what they +had heard. Everywhere was horror, sympathy, and interested speculation +as to "how he'd take it." + +Where explicit information was so lacking, imagination and surmise +eagerly supplied the details; and Mrs. McGuire's news of the blinding +of John McGuire was not three days old before a full account of the +tragedy from beginning to end was flying from tongue to tongue--an +account that would have surprised no one so greatly as it would have +surprised John McGuire himself. + +To Susan, Dorothy Parkman came one day with this story. + +"Well, 't ain't true," disavowed Susan succinctly when the lurid +details had been breathlessly repeated to her. + +"You mean--he isn't blind?" demanded the young girl. + +"Oh, yes, he's blind, all right, poor boy! But it's the rest I +mean--about his killin' twenty-eight Germans single-handed, an' bein' +all shot to pieces hisself, an' benighted for bravery." + +"But what did happen?" + +"We don't know. We just know he's blind an' comin' home. Mis' McGuire +had two letters yesterday from John, but--" + +"From John--himself?" + +"Yes; but they was both writ long before the apostrophe, an' 'course +they didn't say nothin' about it. He was well an' happy, he said. She +had had only one letter before these for a long time. An' now to +have--this!" + +"Yes, I know. It's terrible. How does--Mr. Keith take it?" + +Susan opened wide her eyes. + +"Why, you've seen him--you see him yesterday yourself, Miss Dorothy." + +"Oh, I saw him--in a way, but not the real him, Susan. He's miles away +now, always." + +"You mean he ain't civil an' polite?" demanded Susan. + +"Oh, he's very civil--too civil, Susan. Every time I go I say I won't +go again. Then, when I get to thinking of him sitting there alone all +day, and of how he used to like to have me read to him and play with +him, I--I just have to go and see if he won't be the same as he used +to be. But he never is." + +"I know." Susan shook her head mournfully. "An' he ain't the same, +Miss Dorothy. He don't ever whistle nor sing now, nor play solitary, +nor any of them things he used to do. Oh, when folks comes in he +braces back an' talks an' laughs. YOU know that. But in the exclusion +of his own home here he jest sits an' thinks an' thinks an' thinks. +An', Miss Dorothy, I've found out now what he's thinkin' of." + +"Yes?" + +"It's John McGuire an' them other soldiers what's comin' back blind +from the war. An' he talks an' talks about 'em, an' mourns an' takes +on something dreadful. He says HE knows what it means, an' that nobody +can know what hain't had it happen to 'em. An' he broods an' broods +over it." + +"I can--imagine it." The girl said it with a little catch in her +voice. + +"An'--an' there's somethin' else I want to tell you about. I've got to +tell somebody. I want to know if you think I done right. An' you're +the only one I can tell. I've thought it all out. Daniel Burton is too +near, an' Mis' McGuire an' all them others is too far. You ain't a +relation, an' yet you care. You do care, don't you?--about Mr. Keith?" + +"Why, of--of course. I care a great deal, Susan." Miss Dorothy spoke +very lightly, very impersonally; but there was a sudden flame of color +in her face. Susan, however, was not noticing this. Furtively she was +glancing one way and another over her shoulder. + +"Yes. Well, the other day he--he tried to--that is, well, I--I found +him with a pistol in his hand, an'--" + +"Susan!" The girl had gone very white. + +"Oh, he didn't do it. Well, that ain't a very sensitive statement, is +it? For if he had done it, he wouldn't be alive now, would he?" broke +off Susan, with a faint smile. "But what I mean is, he didn't do it, +an' I don't think he's goin' to do it." + +"But, oh, Susan," faltered the girl, "you didn't leave that--that +awful thing with him, did you? Didn't you take it--away?" + +"No." Susan's mouth set grimly. "An' that's what I wanted to ask you +about--if I did right, you know." + +"Oh, no, no, Susan! I'm afraid," shuddered the girl. "Can't you--get +it away--now?" + +"Maybe. I know where 'tis. I was up there yesterday an' see it. 'T was +in the desk drawer in the attic, jest where it used to be." + +"Then get it, Susan, get it. Oh, please get it," begged the girl. "I'm +afraid to have it there--a single minute." + +"But, Miss Dorothy, stop; wait jest a minute. Think. How's he goin' to +get self-defiance an' make a strong man of hisself if we take things +away from him like he was a little baby?" + +"I know, Susan; but if he SHOULD be tempted--" + +"He won't. He ain't no more. I'm sure of that. I talked with him. +Besides, I hain't caught him up there once since that day last week. +Oh, I'm free to confess I HAVE watched him," admitted Susan +defensively, with a faint smile. + +"But what did happen that day you--you found him?" + +"Oh, he had it, handlin' it, an' when he heard me, he jumped a little, +an' hid it under some papers. My, Miss Dorothy, 'twas awful. I was +that scared an' frightened I thought I couldn't move. But I knew I'd +got to, an' I knew I'd got to move RIGHT, too, or I'd spoil +everything. This wa'n't no ten-cent melodydrama down to the movies, +but I had a humane soul there before me, an' I knew maybe it's whole +internal salvation might depend on what I said an' did." + +"But what DID you say?" + +"I don't know. I only know that somehow, when it was over, I had a +feelin' that he wouldn't never do that thing again. That somehow the +MAN in him was on top, an' would stay on top. An' I'm more sure than +ever of it now. He ain't thinkin' of hisself these days. It's John +McGuire and them others. An' ain't it better that he let that pistol +alone of his own free will an' accordance, an' know he was a man an' +no baby, than if I'd taken it away from him?" + +"I suppose--it was, Susan; but I don't think I'd have been strong +enough--to make him strong." + +"Yes, you would, if you'd been there. I reckon we're all goin' to +learn to do a lot of things we never did before, now that the war has +come." + +"Yes, I know." A quivering pain swept across the young girl's face. + +"Somehow, the war never seemed real to me before. 'T was jest +somethin' 'way off--a lot of Dagoes an' Dutchmen, like the men what +dug up the McGuires' frozen water-pipes last spring, fightin'. Not our +kind of folks what talked English. Even when I read the papers, an' +the awful things they did over there--it didn't seem as if 't was +folks on our earth. It was like somethin' you read about in them old +histronic days, or somethin' happenin' up on the moon, or on that +plantation of Mars. Oh, of course, I knew John McGuire had gone; but +somehow I never thought of him as fightin'--not with guns an' bloody +gore, in spite of them letters of his. Some way, in my mind's eyes I +always see him marchin' with flags flyin' an' folks cheerin'; an' I +thought the war'd be over, anyhow, by the time he got there. + +"But, now--! Why, now they're all gone--our own Teddy Somers, an' Tom +Spencer, an' little Jacky Green that I used to hold on my knee. Some +of 'em in France, an' some of 'em in them army canteens down to Ayer +an' Texas an' everywhere. An' poor Tom's died already of pneumonia +right here in our own land. An' now poor John McGuire! I tell you, +Miss Dorothy, it brings it right home now to your own heart, where it +hurts." + +"It certainly does, Susan." + +"An' let me tell you. What do you s'pose, more 'n anything else, made +me see how really big it all is?" + +"I don't know, Susan," + +"Well, I'll tell you. 'Twas because I couldn't write a poem on it." + +"Sure enough, Susan! I don't believe I've heard you make a rhyme +to-day," smiled Miss Dorothy. + +Susan sighed and shook her head. + +"Yes, I know. I don't make 'em much now. Somehow they don't sing all +the time in my heart, an' burst out natural-like, as they used to. I +think them days when I tried so hard to sell my poems, an' couldn't, +kinder took the jest out of poetizin' for me. Somehow, when you find +out somethin' is invaluable to other folks, it gets so it's invaluable +to you, I s'pose. Still, even now, when I set right down to it, I can +'most always write 'em right off 'most as quick as I used to. But I +couldn't on this war. I tried it. But it jest wouldn't do. I begun it: + + Oh, woe is me, said the bayonet, + Oh, woe is me, said the sword. + +Then the whole awful frightfulness of it an' the bigness of it seemed +to swallow me up, an' I felt like a little pigment overtopped an' +surrounded by great tall mountains of horror that were tumblin' down +one after another on my head, an' bury in' me down so far an' deep +that I couldn't say anything, only to moan, 'Oh, Lord, how long, oh, +Lord, how long?' An' I knew then't was too big for me. I didn't try to +write no more." + +"I can see how you couldn't," faltered the girl, as she turned away. +"I'm afraid--we're all going to find it--too big for us." + + + + +CHAPTER XXV + +KEITH TO THE RESCUE + + +John McGuire had not been home twenty-four hours before it was known +that he "took it powerful hard." + +To Keith Susan told what she had learned. + +"They say he utterly refuses to see any one outside the family; an' +that he'd rather not see even his own folks--that he's always askin' +'em to let him alone." + +"Is he ill or wounded otherwise?" asked Keith. + +"No, he ain't hurt outwardly or infernally, except his eyes, an' he +says that's the worst of it, one woman told me. He's as sound as a +nut, an' good for a hundred years yet. If he'd only been smashed up +good an' solid, so's he'd have some hope of dyin' pretty quick, he +wouldn't mind it, he says. But to live along like this--!--oh, he's in +an awful state of mind, everybody says." + +"I can--imagine it," sighed Keith. And by the way he turned away Susan +knew that he did not care to talk any more. + +An hour later Mrs. McGuire hurried into Susan's kitchen. Mrs. McGuire +was looking thin and worn these days. From her half-buttoned shoes to +her half-combed hair she was showing the results of strain and +anxiety. With a long sigh she dropped into one of the kitchen chairs. + +"Well, Mis' McGuire, if you ain't the stranger!" Susan greeted her +cordially. + +"Yes, I know," sighed Mrs. McGuire. "But, you see, I can't leave--him." +As she spoke she looked anxiously through the window toward her +own door. "Mr. McGuire's with him, now, so I got away." + +"But there's Bess an' Harry," began Susan, + +"We don't leave him with the children, ever," interposed Mrs. McGuire, +with another hurried glance through the window. "We--don't dare to. +You see, once we found--we found him with his father's old pistol. Oh, +Susan, it--it was awful!" + +"Yes, it--must have been." Susan, after one swift glance into her +visitor's face, had turned her back suddenly. She was busy now with +the dampers of her kitchen stove. + +"Of course we took it right away," went on Mrs. McGuire, "an' put it +where he'll never get it again. But we're always afraid there'll be +somethin' somewhere that he WILL get hold of. You see, he's SO +despondent--in such a terrible state!" + +"Yes, I know," nodded Susan. Susan had abandoned her dampers, and had +turned right about face again. "If only he'd see folks now." + +"Yes, an' that's what I came over to talk to you about," cried Mrs. +McGuire eagerly. "We haven't been able to get him to see anybody--not +anybody. But I've been wonderin' if he wouldn't see Keith, if we could +work it right. You see he says he just won't be stared at; an' Keith, +poor boy, COULDN'T stare, an' John knows it. Oh, Susan, do you suppose +we could manage it?" + +"Why, of course. I'll tell him right away, an' he'll go over; I know +he'll go!" exclaimed Susan, all interest at once. + +"Oh, but that wouldn't do at all!" cried Mrs. McGuire. "Don't you see? +John refuses, absolutely refuses, to see any one; an' he wouldn't see +Keith, if I should ASK him to. But he's interested in Keith--I KNOW +he's that, for once, when I was talkin' to Mr. McGuire about Keith, +John broke in an' asked two or three questions, an' he's NEVER done +that before, about anybody. An' so I was pretty sure it was because +Keith was blind, you know, like himself." + +"Yes, I see, I see." + +"An' if I can only manage it so they'll meet without John's knowin' +they're goin' to, I believe he'll get to talkin' with him before he +knows it; an' that it'll do him a world of good. Anyway, somethin's +got to be done, Susan--it's GOT to be--to get him out of this awful +state he's in." + +"Well, we'll do it. I know we can do it some way." + +"You think Keith'll do his part?" Mrs. McGuire's eyes were anxious. + +"I'm sure he will--when he understands." + +"Then listen," proposed Mrs. McGuire eagerly. "I'll get my John out on +to the back porch to-morrow mornin'. That's the only place outdoors I +CAN get him--he can't be seen from the street there, you know. I'll +get him there as near ten o'clock as I can. You be on the watch, an' +as soon as I get him all nicely fixed, you get Keith to come out into +your yard an' stroll over to the fence an' speak to him, an' then come +up on to the porch an' sit down, just naturally. He can do that all +right, can't he? It's just wonderful--the way he gets around +everywhere, with that little cane of his!" + +"Yes, oh, yes." + +"Well, I thought he could. An' tell him to keep right on talkin' every +minute so my John won't have a chance to get up an' go into the house. +Of course, I shall be there myself, at first. We never leave him +alone, you know. But as soon as Keith comes, I shall go. They'll get +along better by themselves, I'm sure--only, of course, I shall be +where I can keep watch out of the window. Now do you understand?" + +"Yes, an' we can do it. I know we can do it." + +"All right, then. I'm not so sure we can, but we'll try it, anyway," +sighed Mrs. McGuire, rising to her feet, the old worry back on her +face. "Well, I must be goin'. Mr. McGuire'll have a fit. He's as +nervous as a witch when he's left alone with John. There! What did I +tell you?" she broke off, with an expressive gesture and glance, as a +careworn-looking man appeared in the doorway of the house across the +two back yards, and peered anxiously over at the Burtons' kitchen +door. "Now, don't forget--ten o'clock to-morrow mornin'." + +"I won't forget," promised Susan cheerfully, "Now, do you go home an' +set easy, Mis' McGuire, an' don't you fret no more. It's comin' out +all right--all right, I tell you," she reiterated, as Mrs. McGuire +hurried through the doorway. + +But when Mrs. McGuire was gone Susan drew a dubious sigh; and her +cheery smile had turned to a questioning frown as she went in search +of Keith. Very evidently Susan was far from feeling quite so sure +about Keith's cooperation as she would have Mrs. McGuire think. + +Keith was in the living-room, his head bowed in his two hands, his +elbows on the table before him. At the first sound of Susan's steps he +lifted his head with a jerk. + +"I was lookin' for you," began Susan the moment she had crossed the +threshold. Susan had learned that Keith hated above all things to have +to speak first, or to ask, "Who is it?" "Mis' McGuire's jest been +here." + +"Yes, I heard her voice," returned the boy indifferently. + +"She was tellin' about her John." + +"How is he getting along?" + +"He's in a bad way. Oh, he's real well physicianally, but he's in a +bad way in his mind." + +"Well, you don't wonder, do you?" + +"Oh, no, 'course not. Still, well, for one thing, he don't like to see +folks." + +"Strange! Now, I'd think he'd just dote on seeing folks, wouldn't +you?" + +Susan caught the full force of the sarcasm, but superbly she ignored +it. + +"Well, I don't know--maybe; but, anyhow, he don't, an' Mis' McGuire's +that worried she don't know what to do. You see, she found him once +with his daddy's pistol"--Susan was talking very fast now--"an' +'course that worked her up somethin' terrible. I'm afraid he hain't +got much backbone. They don't dare to leave him alone a minute--not a +minute. An' Mis' McGuire, she was wonderin' if--if you couldn't help +'em out some way." + +"_I_?" The short ejaculation was full of amazement. + +"Yes. That's what she come over for this mornin'." + +"I? They forget." Keith fell back bitterly. "John McGuire might get +hold of a dozen revolvers, and I wouldn't know it." + +"Oh, 'twa'n't that. They didn't want you to WATCH him. They wanted you +to--Well, it's jest this. Mis' McGuire thought as how if she could get +her John out on the back porch, an' you happened to be in our back +yard, an' should go over an' speak to him, maybe you'd get to talkin' +with him, an' go up an' sit down. She thought maybe 'twould get him +out of hisself that way. You see, he won't talk to--to most folks. He +don't like to be stared at." (Susan threw a furtive glance into +Keith's face, then looked quickly away.) "But she thought maybe he +WOULD talk to you." + +"Yes, I--see." Keith drew in his breath with a little catch. + +"An' so she said there wa'n't anybody anywhere that could help so much +as you--if you would." + +"Why, of course, if I really could HELP--" + +Susan did not need to look into Keith's face to catch the longing and +heart-hunger and dawning hope in the word left suspended on his lips. +She felt her own throat tighten; but in a moment she managed to speak +with steady cheerfulness. + +"Well, you can. You can help a whole lot. I'm sure you can. An' Mis' +McGuire is, too. An' what's more, you're the only one what can help +'em, in this case. So we'll keep watch to-morrow mornin', an' when he +comes out on the porch--well, we'll see what we will see." And Susan, +just as if her own heart was not singing a triumphant echo of the song +she knew was in his, turned away with an elaborate air of +indifference. + +Yet, when to-morrow came, and when Keith went out into the yard in +response to the presence of John McGuire on his back porch, the result +was most disappointing--to Susan. To Keith it did not seem to be so +much so. But perhaps Keith had not expected quite what Susan had +expected. At all events, Keith came back to the house with a glow on +his face and a springiness in his step that Susan had not seen there +for months. Yet all that had happened was that Keith had called out +from the gate a pleasant "Good-morning!" to the blinded soldier, and +had followed it with an inconsequential word or two about the weather. +John McGuire had answered a crisp, cold something, and had risen at +once to go into the house. Keith, at the first sound of his feet on +the porch floor, had turned with a cheery "Well, I must be going back +to the house." Whereupon John McGuire had sat down again, and Mrs. +McGuire, who at Keith's first words, had started to her feet, dropped +back into her chair. + +Apparently not much accomplished, certainly; yet there was the glow on +Keith's face and the springiness in Keith's step; and when he reached +the kitchen, he said this to Susan: + +"The next time John McGuire is on the back porch, please let me know." + +And Susan let him know, both then and at subsequent times. + +It was a pretty game and one well worth the watching. Certainly Susan +and Mrs. McGuire thought it so. On the one side were persistence and +perseverance and infinite tact. On the other were a distrustful +antagonism and a palpable longing for an understanding companionship. + +At first the intercourse between the two blind youths consisted of a +mere word or two tossed by Keith to the other who gave a still shorter +word in reply. And even this was not every day, for John McGuire was +not out on the porch every day. But as the month passed, he came more +and more frequently, and one evening Mrs. McGuire confided to Susan +the fact that John seemed actually to fret now if a storm kept him +indoors. + +"An' he listens for Keith to come along the fence--I know he does," +she still further declared. "Oh, I know he doesn't let him say much +yet, but he hasn't jumped up to go into the house once since those +first two or three times, an' that's somethin'. An' what's more, he +let Keith stay a whole minute at the gate talkin' yesterday!" she +finished in triumph. + +"Yes, an' the best of it is," chimed in Susan, "it's helpin' Keith +Burton hisself jest as much as 'tis John McGuire. Why, he ain't the +same boy since he's took to tryin' to get your John to talkin'. An' he +asks me a dozen times a mornin' if John's out on the porch yet. An' +when he IS out there, he don't lose no time in goin' out hisself." + +Yet it was the very next morning that Keith, after eagerly asking if +John McGuire were on the back porch, did not go out. Instead he +settled back in his chair and picked up one of his embossed books. + +Susan frowned in amazed wonder, and opened her lips as if to speak. +But after a glance at Keith's apparently absorbed face, she turned and +went back to her work in the kitchen. Twice during the next ten +minutes, however, she invented an excuse to pass again through the +living-room, where Keith sat. Yet, though she said a pointed something +each time about John McGuire on the back porch, Keith did not respond +save with an indifferent word or two. And, greatly to her indignation, +he was still sitting in his chair with his book when at noon John +McGuire, on the porch across the back yard, rose from his seat and +went into the house. + +Susan was still more indignant when, the next morning, the same +programme was repeated--except for the fact that Susan's reminders of +John McGuire's presence on the back porch were even more pointed than +they had been on the day before. Again the third morning it was the +same. Susan resolved then to speak. She said to herself that "patience +had ceased to be virtuous," and she lay awake half that night +rehearsing a series of arguments and pleadings which she meant to +present the next morning. She was the more incited to this owing to +Mrs. McGuire's distracted reproaches the evening before. + +"Why, John has asked for him, actually ASKED for him," Mrs. McGuire +had wept. "An' it is cruel, the cruelest thing I ever saw, to get that +poor boy all worked up to the point of really WANTIN' to talk with +him, an' then stay away three whole days like this!" + +On the fourth morning, therefore, when John McGuire appeared on the +back porch, Susan went into the Burton living-room with the avowed +determination of getting Keith out of the house and into the back +yard, or of telling him exactly what she thought of him. + +She had all of her elaborate scheming for nothing, however, for at her +first terse announcement that John McGuire was on the back porch, +Keith sprang to his feet with a cheery: + +"So? Well, I guess I'll go out myself." + +And Susan was left staring at him with open eyes and mouth--yet not +too dazed to run to the open window and watch what happened. + +And this is what Susan saw--and heard. Keith, with his almost +uncannily skillful stick to guide him, sauntered down the path and +called a cheery greeting to John McGuire--a John McGuire who, in his +eagerness to respond, leaned away forward in his chair with a sudden +flame of color in his face. + +Keith still sauntered toward the dividing fence, pausing only to feel +with his fingers and pick the one belated rose from the bush at the +gate. He pushed the gate open then, still talking cheerfully, and the +next moment Susan was holding her breath, for Keith had gone straight +up the walk and up the steps, and had dropped himself into the vacant +chair beside John McGuire--and John McGuire, after a faint start as if +to rise, had fallen back in his seat, and had turned his face +uncertainly, fearfully, yet with infinite longing, toward the blind +youth at his side. + +Susan looked then at Mrs. McGuire. Mrs. McGuire, too, was plainly +holding her breath suspended. On her face, too, were uncertainty, +fearfulness, and infinite longing. For a moment she watched the two +boys intently. Then she rose and with cautious steps made her way into +the house. After supper that night she came over and told Susan all +about it. Her face was beaming. + +"Did you see them?" she began breathlessly. "Wasn't it wonderful? A +whole half-hour those two blessed boys sat there an' talked; an' John +laughed twice, actually laughed." + +"Yes, I know," nodded Susan, her own face no less beaming. + +"An' to think how just last night I was scoldin' an' blamin' Keith +because he didn't come over these last three days. An' I never saw at +all what he was up to." + +"Up to?" frowned Susan. + +"Yes, yes! Don't you see? He did it on purpose--stayed away three +whole days, so John would miss him an' WANT him. An' John DID miss +him. Why, he listened for him all the time. I could just SEE he was +listenin'. An' that's what made me so angry, because Keith didn't +come. The idea!--My boy wantin' somebody, an' that somebody not there! + +"But I know now. I understand. An' I love him for it. He did it to +make him want him. An' it worked. Why, if he'd come before, every day, +just as usual, John wouldn't have talked with him. I know he wouldn't. +But now--oh, Susan, it was wonderful, wonderful! I watched 'em from +the window. I HAD to watch. I was afraid--still. An' of course I heard +some things. An', oh, Susan, it was wonderful, the way that boy +understood." + +"You mean--Keith?" + +"Yes. You see, first John began to talk just as he talks to us--ravin' +because he's so strong an' well, an' likely to live to be a hundred; +an' of how he'll look, one of these days, with his little tin cup held +out for pennies an' his sign, 'Please Help the Blind,' an' of what +he's got to look forward to all his life. Oh, Susan, it--it's enough +to break the heart of a stone, when he talks like that." + +Susan drew in her breath. + +"Don't you s'pose I know? Well, I guess I do! But what did Keith say +to him?" + +"Nothin'. An' that was the first wonderful thing. You see, we--we +always talk an' try to comfort him when he talks like that. But Keith +didn't. He just let him talk, with nothin' but just a sympathetic word +now an' then. But it wasn't long before I noticed a wonderful thing +was happenin'. Keith was beginnin' to talk--not about that awful tin +cup an' the pennies an' the sign, but about other things; first about +the rose in his hand. An' pretty quick John was talkin' about it, too. +He had the rose an' was smellin' of it. Then Keith had a new knife, +an' he passed that over, an' pretty quick I saw that John had that +little link puzzle of Keith's, an' was havin' a great time tryin' to +straighten it out. That's the first time I heard him laugh. + +"I began to realize then what Keith was doin'. He was fillin' John's +mind full of somethin' else beside himself, for just a minute, an' was +showin' him that there were things he could call by name, like the +rose an' the knife an' the puzzle, even if he couldn't SEE 'em. Oh, +Keith didn't SAY anything like that to him--trust him for that. But +before John knew it, he was DOIN' it--callin' things by name, I mean. + +"An' Keith is comin' again to-morrow. John TOLD me so. An' if you +could have seen his face when he said it! Oh, Susan, isn't it +wonderful?" she finished fervently, as she turned to go. + +"It is, indeed--wonderful," murmured Susan. But Susan's eyes were out +the window on Keith's face--Keith and his father were coming up the +walk talking; and on Keith's face was a light Susan had never seen +there before. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI + +MAZIE AGAIN + + +It came to be the accepted thing almost at once, then, that Keith +Burton and John McGuire should spend their mornings together on the +McGuires' back porch. In less than a fortnight young McGuire even +crossed the yard arm in arm with Keith to the Burtons' back porch and +sat there one morning. After that it was only a question as to which +porch it should be. That it would be one of them was a foregone +conclusion. + +Sometimes the two boys talked together. Sometimes they worked on one +of Keith's raised picture puzzles. Sometimes Keith read aloud from one +of his books. Whatever they did, their doing it was the source of +great interest to the entire neighborhood. Not only did Mrs. McGuire +and Susan breathlessly watch from their respective kitchens, but +friends and neighbors fabricated excuses to come to the two houses in +order to see for themselves; and children gathered along the +divisional fence and gazed with round eyes of wonder. But they gazed +silently. Everybody gazed silently. Even the children seemed to +understand that the one unpardonable sin was to let the blind boys on +the porch know that they were the objects of any sort of interest. + +One day Mazie Sanborn came. She brought a new book for Mrs. McGuire to +read--an attention she certainly had never before bestowed on John +McGuire's mother. She talked one half-minute about the book--and five +minutes about the beautiful new friendship between the two blind young +men. She insisted on going into the kitchen where she could see the +two boys on the porch. Then, before Mrs. McGuire could divine her +purpose and stop her, she had slipped through the door and out on to +the porch itself. + +"How do you do, gentlemen," she began blithely. "I just--" + +But the terrified Mrs. McGuire had her by the arm and was pulling her +back into the kitchen before she could finish her sentence. + +On the porch the two boys had leaped to their feet, John McGuire, in +particular, looking distressed and angry. + +"Who was that? Is anybody--there?" he demanded. + +"No, dear, not now." In the doorway Mrs. McGuire was trying to nod +assurance to the boys and frown banishment to Mazie Sanborn at one and +the same moment. + +"But there was--some one," insisted her son sharply. + +"Just some one that brought a book to me, dearie, an' she's gone now." +Frantically Mrs. McGuire was motioning Mazie to make her assertion the +truth. + +John McGuire sat down then. So, too, did Keith. But all the rest of +the morning John was nervously alert for all sounds. And his ears were +frequently turned toward the kitchen door. He began to talk again, +too, bitterly, of the little tin cup for the pennies and the sign +"Pity the Poor Blind." He lost all interest in Keith's books and +puzzles, and when he was not railing at the tragedy of his fate, he +was sitting in gloomy silence. + +Keith told Susan that afternoon that if Mrs. McGuire did not keep +people away from that porch when he was out there with John, he would +not answer for the consequences. Susan told Mrs. McGuire, and Mrs. +McGuire told Mazie Sanborn, at the same time returning the loaned +book--all of which did not tend to smooth Miss Mazie's already ruffled +feelings. + +To Dorothy Mazie expressed her mind on the matter. + +"I don't care! I'll never go there again--never!" she declared +angrily; "nor speak to Mrs. McGuire, nor that precious son of hers, +nor Keith Burton, either. So there!" + +"Oh, Mazie, but poor Keith isn't to blame," remonstrated Dorothy +earnestly, the color flaming into her face. + +"He is, too. He's just as bad as John McGuire. He jumped up and looked +just as cross as John McGuire did when I went out on to that porch. +And he doesn't ever really want to see us. You know he doesn't. He +just stands us because he thinks he's got to be polite." + +"But, Mazie, dear, he's so sensitive, and he feels his affliction +keenly, and--" + +"Oh, yes, that's right--stand up for him! I knew you would," snapped +Mazie crossly. "And everybody knows it, too--running after him the way +you do." + +"RUNNING AFTER HIM!" Dorothy's face was scarlet now. + +"Yes, running after him," reiterated the other incisively; "and you +always have--trotting over there all the time with books and puzzles +and candy and flowers. And--" + +"For shame, Mazie!" interrupted Dorothy, with hot indignation. "As if +trying to help that poor blind boy to while away a few hours of his +time were RUNNING AFTER HIM." + +"But he doesn't WANT you to while away an hour or two of his time. And +I should think you'd see he didn't. You could if you weren't so dead +in love with him, and--" + +"Mazie!" gasped Dorothy, aghast. + +"Well, it's so. Anybody can see that--the way you color up every time +his name is mentioned, and the way you look at him, with your heart in +your eyes, and--" + +"Mazie Sanborn!" gasped Dorothy again. Her face was not scarlet now. +It had gone dead white. She was on her feet, horrified, dismayed, and +very angry. + +"Well, I don't care. It's so. Everybody knows it. And when a fellow +shows so plainly that he'd rather be let alone, how you can keep +thrusting yourself--" + +But Dorothy had gone. With a proud lifting of her head, and a sharp +"Nonsense, Mazie, you are wild! We'll not discuss it any longer, +please," she had turned and left the room. + +But she remembered. She must have remembered, for she did not go near +the Burton homestead for a week. Neither did the next week nor the +next see her there. Furthermore, though the little stand in her room +had shown two new picture puzzles and a new game especially designed +for the blind, it displayed them no longer after those remarks of +Mazie Sanborn's. Not that Keith had them, however. Indeed, no. They +were buried deep under a pile of clothing in the farther corner of +Dorothy's bottom bureau drawer. + +At the Burton homestead Susan wondered a little at her absence. She +even said to Keith one day: + +"Why, where's Dorothy? We haven't see her for two weeks." + +"I don't know, I'm sure." + +The way Keith's lips came together over the last word caused Susan to +throw a keen glance into his face. + +"Now, Keith, I hope you two haven't been quarreling again," she +frowned anxiously. + +"'Again'! Nonsense, Susan, we never did quarrel. Don't be silly." The +youth shifted his position uneasily. + +"I'm thinkin' tain't always me that's silly," observed Susan, with +another keen glance. "That girl was gettin' so she come over jest +natural-like again, every little while, bringin' in one thing or +another, if 'twas nothin' more'n a funny story to make us laugh. An' +what I want to know is why she stopped right off short like this, for--" + +"Nonsense!" tossed Keith again, with a lift of his chin. Then, with an +attempt at lightness that was very near a failure, he laughed: "I +reckon we don't want her to come if she doesn't want to, do we, +Susan?" + +"Humph!" was Susan's only comment--outwardly. Inwardly she was vowing +to see that young woman and have it out with her, once for all. + +But Susan did not see her nor have it out with her; for, as it +happened, something occurred that night so all-absorbing and exciting +that even the unexplained absence of Dorothy Parkman became as nothing +beside it. + +With the abrupt suddenness that sometimes makes the long-waited-for +event a real shock, came the news of the death of the poor old woman +whose frail hand had held the wealth that Susan had coveted for Daniel +Burton and his son. + +The two men left the next morning on the four-hundred-mile journey +that would take them to the town where Nancy Holworthy had lived. + +Scarcely had they left the house before Susan began preparations for +their home-coming, as befitted their new estate. Her first move was to +get out all the best silver and china. She was busy cleaning it when +Mrs. McGuire came in at the kitchen door. + +"What's the matter?" she began breathlessly. + +"Where's Keith? John's been askin' for him all the mornin'. Is Mr. +Burton sick? They just telephoned from the store that Mr. Burton had +sent word that he wouldn't be down for a few days. He isn't sick, is +he?--or Keith? I couldn't make out quite all they said; but there was +somethin' about Keith. They ain't either of 'em sick, are they?" + +"Oh, no, they're both well--very well, thank you." There was an air, +half elation, half superiority, about Susan that was vaguely +irritating to Mrs. McGuire. + +"Well, you needn't be so secret about it, Susan," she began a little +haughtily. But Susan tossed her head with a light laugh. + +"Secret! I guess 't won't be no secret long. Mr. Daniel Burton an' +Master Keith have gone away, Mis' McGuire." + +"Away! You mean--a--a vacation?" frowned Mrs. McGuire doubtfully. + +Susan laughed again, still with that irritating air of superiority. + +"Well, hardly. This ain't no pleasure exertion, Mis' McGuire. Still, +on the other hand, Daniel Burton wouldn't be half humane if he didn't +get some pleasure out of it, though he wouldn't so demean himself as +to show it, of course. Mis' Nancy Holworthy is dead, Mis' McGuire. We +had the signification last night." + +"Not--you don't mean THE Nancy Holworthy--the one that's got the +money!" The excited interest in Mrs. McGuire's face and voice was as +great as even Susan herself could have desired. + +Susan obviously swelled with the glory of the occasion, though she +still spoke with cold loftiness. + +"The one and the same, Mis' McGuire." + +"My stars an' stockin's, you don't say! An' they've gone to the +funeral?" + +"They have." + +"An' they'll get the money now, I s'pose." + +"They will." + +"But are you sure? You know sometimes when folks expect the money they +don't get it. It's been willed away to some one else." + +"Yes, I know. But't won't be here," spoke Susan with decision. "Mis' +Holworthy couldn't if she'd wanted to. It's all foreordained an' fixed +beforehand. Daniel Burton was to get jest the annual while she lived, +an' then the whole in a plump sum when she died. Well, she's dead, an' +now he gets it. An' a right tidy little sum it is, too." + +"Was she awful rich, Susan?" + +"More'n a hundred thousand. A hundred an' fifty, I've heard say." + +"My gracious me! An' to think of Daniel Burton havin' a hundred and +fifty thousand dollars! What in the world will he do with it?" + +Susan's chin came up superbly. + +"Well, I can tell you one thing he'll do, Mis' McGuire. He'll stop +peddlin' peas an' beans over that counter down there, an' retire to a +life of ease an' laxity with his paint-brushes, as he ought to. An' +he'll have somethin' fit to eat an' wear, an' Keith will, too. An' +furthermore an' likewise you'll see SOME difference in this place, or +my name ain't Susan Betts. Them two men have got an awful lot to live +up to, an' I mean they shall understand it right away." + +"Which explains this array of china an' silver, I take it," observed +Mrs. McGuire dryly. + +"Eh? What?" frowned Susan doubtfully; then her face cleared. "Yes, +that's jest it. They've got to have things now fitted up to their new +estation. We shall get more, too. We need some new teaspoons an' +forks. An' I want 'em to get some of them bunion spoons." + +"BUNION spoons!" + +"Yes--when you eat soup out of them two-handled cups, you know. Or +maybe you don't know," she corrected herself, at the odd expression +that had come to Mrs. McGuire's face. "But I do. Mrs. Professor +Hinkley used to have 'em. They're awful pretty an' stylish, too. And +we've got to have a lot of other things--new china, an' some cut-glass, +an'--" + +"Well, it strikes me," interrupted Mrs. McGuire severely, "that Daniel +Burton had better be puttin' his money into Liberty Bonds an' Red +Cross work, instead of silver spoons an' cut-glass, in these war-times. +An'--" + +"My lan', Mis' McGuire!" With the sudden exclamation Susan had dropped +the spoon she was polishing. Her eyes, wild and incredulous, were +staring straight into the startled eyes of the woman opposite. "Do you +know? Since that yeller telegram came last night tellin' us Nancy +Holworthy was dead, I hain't even once thought of--the war." + +"Well, I guess you would think of it--if you had my John right before +you all the time." With a bitter sigh Mrs. McGuire had relaxed in her +chair. "You wouldn't need anything else." + +"Humph! I don't need anything else with Daniel Burton 'round." + +"What do you mean?" + +"Why, I mean that that man don't do nothin' but read war an' talk war +every minute he's in the house. An' what with them wheatless days an' +meatless days, he fairly EATS war. You heard my poem on them meatless, +wheatless days, didn't you?" + +Mrs. McGuire shook her head listlessly. Her somber eyes were on the +lonely figure of her son on the porch across the two back yards. + +"You didn't? Well, I'll say it to you, then. 'Tain't much; still, it's +kind of good, in a way. I hain't written hardly anything lately; but I +did write this: + + We've a wheatless day, + An' a meatless day, + An' a tasteless, wasteless, + sweetless day. + + But with never a pause, + For the good of the cause, + We'd even consent to an + eatless day. + +"An' we would, too, of course. + +"An' as far as that's concerned, there's a good many other kinds of +'less days that I'm thinkin' wouldn't hurt none of us. How about a +fretless day an' a worryless day? Wouldn't they be great? An' only +think what a talkless day'd mean in some households I could mention. +Oh, of course, present comp'ny always accentuated," she hastened to +add with a sly chuckle, as Mrs. McGuire stirred into sudden +resentment. + +"Humph!" subsided Mrs. McGuire, still a little resentfully. + +"An' I'm free to confess that there's some kinds of 'less days that +we've already got plenty of," went on Susan, after a moment's +thoughtful pause. "There is folks that take quite enough workless +days, an' laughless days, an' pityless days, an' thankless days. My +lan', there ain't no end to them kind, as any one can see. An' there +was them heatless days last winter--I guess no one was hankerin' for +more of THEM. Oh, 'course I understand that that was just preservation +of coal, an' that 'twas necessary, an' all that. An' that's another +thing, too--this preservation business. I'd like to add a few things +to that, an' make 'em preserve in fault-findin', an' crossness, an' +backbitin', an' gossip, as well as in coal, an' sugar, an' wheat, an' +beef." + +Mrs. McGuire gave a short laugh. + +"My goodness, Susan Betts, if you ain't the limit, an' no mistake! I +s'pose you mean CONservation." + +"Heh? What's that? Well, CONservation, then. What's the difference, +anyway?" she scoffed a bit testily. Then, abruptly, her face changed. +"But, there! this ain't settlin' what I'm going to do with Daniel +Burton," she finished with a profound sigh. + +"Do with him?" puzzled Mrs. McGuire. + +"Yes." Susan picked up the silver spoon and began indifferently to +polish it. "'Tain't no use for me to be doin' all this. Daniel Burton +won't know whether he's eatin' with a silver spoon or one made of +pewter. No more will he retire to a life of ease an' laxity with his +paint-brushes--unless they declarate peace to-morrow mornin'." + +"You don't mean--he'll stay in the store?" + +Susan made a despairing gesture. + +"Goodness only knows what he'll do--I don't. I know what he does now. +He's as uneasy as a fish out o' water, an' he roams the house from one +end to the other every night, after he reads the paper. He's got one +of them war maps on his wall, an' he keeps changin' the pins an' +flags, an' I hear him mutterin' under his breath. You see, he has to +keep it from Keith all he can, for Keith hisself feels so bad 'cause +he can't be up an' doin'; an' if he thought he was keepin' his father +back from helpin', I don't know what the poor boy would do. But I +think if 'twa'n't for Keith, Daniel Burton would try to enlist an' go +over. Oh, of course, he's beyond the malicious age, so far as bein' +drafted is concerned, an' you wouldn't naturally think such a +mild-tempered-lookin' man would go in much for killin'. But this war's +stirred him up somethin' awful." + +"Well, who wouldn't it?" + +"Oh, I know that; an' I ain't sayin' as how it shouldn't. But that +don't make it no easier for Daniel Burton to keep his feelin's hid +from his son, particularly when it's that son that's made him have the +feelin's, partly. There ain't no doubt but that one of the things +that's made Daniel Burton so fidgety an' uneasy, an' ready to jest +fling hisself into that ravin' conflict over there is his unhappiness +an' disappointment over Keith. He had such big plans for that boy!" + +"Yes, I know. We all have big plans for--our boys." Mrs. McGuire +choked and turned away. + +"An' girls, too, for that matter," hurried on Susan, with a quick +glance into the other's face. "An' speakin' of girls, did you see +Hattie Turner on the street last night?" + +Dumbly Mrs. McGuire answered with a shake of her head. Her eyes had +gone back to her son's face across the yard. + +"Well, I did. Her Charlie's at Camp Devens, you know. They say he's +invited to more places every Sunday than he can possibly accept; an' +that he's petted an' praised an' made of everywhere he goes, an' +tended right up to so's he won't get lonesome, or attend +unquestionable entertainments. Well, that's all right an' good, of +course, an' as it should be. But I wish somebody'd take up Charlie +Turner's wife an' invite her to Sunday dinners an' take her to ride, +an' see that she didn't attend unquestionable entertainments." + +"Why, Susan Betts, what an idea!" protested Mrs. McGuire, suddenly +sitting erect in her chair. "Hattie Turner isn't fightin' for her +country." + +"No, but her husband is," retorted Susan crisply. "An' she's fightin' +for her honor an' her future peace an' happiness, an' she's doin' it +all alone. She's pretty as a picture, an' nothin' but a child when he +married her four months ago, an' we've took away her natural pervider +an' entertainer, an' left her nothin' but her freedom for a ballast +wheel. An' I say I wish some of the patriotic people who are jest +showerin' every Charlie Turner with attentions would please sprinkle +jest a few on Charlie's wife, to help keep her straight an' sweet an' +honest for Charlie when he comes back." + +"Hm-m, maybe," murmured Mrs. McGuire, rising wearily to her feet; "but +there ain't many that thinks of that." + +"There'll be more think of it by an' by--when it's too late," observed +Susan succinctly, as she, too, rose from her chair. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII + +FOR THE SAKE OF JOHN + + +In due course Daniel Burton and his son Keith returned from the +funeral of their kinswoman, Mrs. Nancy Holworthy. + +The town, aware now of the stupendous change that had come to the +fortunes of the Burton family, stared, gossiped, shook wise heads of +prophecy, then passed on to the next sensation--which happened to be +the return of four soldiers from across the seas; three crippled, one +blinded. + +At the Burton homestead the changes did not seem so stupendous, after +all. True, Daniel Burton had abandoned the peddling of peas and beans +across the counter, and had, at the earnest solicitation of his son, +got out his easel and placed a fresh canvas upon it; but he obviously +worked half-heartedly, and he still roamed the house after reading the +evening paper, and spent even more time before the great war map on +his studio wall. + +True, also, disgruntled tradesmen no longer rang peremptory peals on +the doorbell, and the postman's load of bills on the first of the +month was perceptibly decreased. The dinner-table, too, bore evidence +that a scanty purse no longer controlled the larder, but no new china +or cut-glass graced the board, and Susan's longed-for bouillon spoons +had never materialized. Locks and doors and sagging blinds had +received prompt attention, and already the house was being prepared +for a new coat of paint; but no startling alterations or improvements +were promised by the evidence, and Keith was still to be seen almost +daily on the McGuire back porch, as before, or on his own, with John +McGuire. + +It is no wonder, surely, that very soon the town ceased to stare and +gossip, or even to shake wise heads of prophecy. + +Nancy Holworthy's death was two months in the past when one day Keith +came home from John McGuire's back porch in very evident excitement +and agitation. + +"Why, Keith, what's the matter? What IS the matter?" demanded Susan +concernedly. + +"Nothing. That is, I--I did not know I acted as if anything was the +matter," stammered the youth. + +"Well, you do. Now, tell me, what is it?" + +"Nothing, nothing, Susan. Nothing you can help." Keith was pacing back +and forth and up and down the living-room, not even using his cane to +define the familiar limits of his pathway. Suddenly he turned and +stopped short, his whole body quivering with emotion. "Susan, I can't! +I can't--stand it," he moaned. + +"I know, Keith. But, what is it--now?" + +"John McGuire. He's been telling me how it is--over there. Why, Susan, +I could see it--SEE it, I tell you, and, oh, I did so want to be there +to help. He told me how they held it--the little clump of trees that +meant so much to US, and how one by one they fell--those brave fellows +with him. I could see it. I could hear it. I could hear the horrid din +of the guns and shells, and the crash of falling trees about us; and +the shouts and groans of the men at our side. And they needed +men--more men--to take the place of those that had fallen. Even one man +counted there--counted for, oh, so much!--for at the last there was +just one man left----John McGuire. And to hear him tell it--it was +wonderful, wonderful!" + +"I know, I know," nodded Susan. "It was like his letters--you could +SEE things. He MADE you see 'em. An' that's what he always did--made +you see things--even when he was a little boy. His mother told me. He +wanted to write, you know. He was goin' to be a writer, before--this +happened. An' now----" The sentence trailed off into the silence +unfinished. + +"And to think of all that to-day being wasted on a blind baby tied to +a picture puzzle," moaned Keith, resuming his nervous pacing of the +room. "If only a man--a real man could have heard him--one that could +go and do a man's work--! Why, Susan, that story, as he told it, would +make a stone fight. I never heard anything like it. I never supposed +there could be anything like that battle. He never talked like this, +until to-day. Oh, he's told me a little, from time to time. But to-day, +to-day, he just poured out his heart to me--ME!--and there are so +many who need just that message to stir them from their smug +complacency--men who could fight, and win: men who WOULD fight, and +win, if only they could see and hear and know, as I saw and heard and +knew this afternoon. And there it was, wasted, WASTED, worse than +wasted on--me!" + +Chokingly Keith turned away, but with a sudden cry Susan caught his +arm. + +"No, no, Keith, it wasn't wasted--you mustn't let it be wasted," she +panted. "Listen! You want others to hear it--what you heard--don't +you?" + +"Why, y-yes, Susan; but----" + +"Then make 'em hear it," she interrupted. "You can--you can!" + +"How?" + +"Make him write it down, jest as he talks. He can--he wants to. He's +always wanted to. Then publish it in a book, so everybody can see it +and hear it, as you did." + +"Oh, Susan, if we only could!" A dawning hope had come into Keith +Burton's face, but almost at once it faded into gray disappointment. +"We couldn't do it, though, Susan. He couldn't do it. You know he +can't write at all. He's only begun to practice a little bit. He'd +never get it down, with the fire and the vim in it, learning to write +as he'd have to. What do you suppose Lincoln's Gettysburg Speech would +have been if he'd had to stop to learn how to spell and to write each +word before he could put it down?" + +"I know, I know," nodded Susan. "It's that way with me in my poetry. I +jest HAVE to get right ahead while the fuse burns, an' spell 'em +somehow, anyhow, so's to get 'em down while I'm in the fit of it. He +couldn't do it. I can see that now. But, Keith, couldn't YOU do +it?--take it down, I mean, as he talked, like a stylographer?" + +Keith shook his head. + +"I wish I could. But I couldn't, I know I couldn't. I couldn't begin +to do it fast enough to keep up with him, and 't would spoil it all to +have to ask him to slow down. When a man's got a couple of Huns coming +straight for him, and he knows he's got to get 'em both at once, you +can't very well sing out: 'Here, wait--wait a minute till I get that +last sentence down!'" + +"I know, I know," nodded Susan again. She paused, drew a long sigh, +and turned her eyes out the window. Up the walk was coming Daniel +Burton. His step was slow, his head was bowed. He looked like anything +but the happy possessor of new wealth. Susan frowned as she watched +him. + +"I wish your father----" she began. Suddenly she stopped. A new light +had leaped to her eyes. "Keith, Keith," she cried eagerly. "I have it! +Your father--he could do it--I know he could!" + +"Do what?" + +"Take down John McGuire's story. Couldn't he do it?" + +"Why, y-yes, he could, I think," hesitated Keith doubtfully. "He +doesn't know shorthand, but he--he's got eyes" (Keith's voice broke a +little) "and he could SEE what he was doing, and he could take down +enough of it so he could patch it up afterwards, I'm sure. But Susan, +John McGuire wouldn't TELL it to HIM. Don't you see? He won't even see +anybody but me, and he didn't talk like this even to me until to-day. +How's dad going to hear it to write it down? Tell me that?" + +"But he could overhear it, Keith. No, no, don't look like that," she +protested hurriedly, as Keith began to frown. "Jest listen a minute. +It would be jest as easy. He could be over on the grass right close, +where he could hear every word; an' you could get John to talkin', an' +as soon as he got really started on a story your father could begin to +write, an' John wouldn't know a thing about it; an'--" + +"Yes, you're quite right--John wouldn't know a thing about it," broke +in Keith, with a passion so sudden and bitter that Susan fell back in +dismay. + +"Why, Keith!" she exclaimed, her startled eyes on his quivering face. + +"I wonder if you think I'd do it!" he demanded. "I wonder if you +really think I'd cheat that poor fellow into talking to me just +because he hadn't eyes to see that I wasn't the only one in his +audience!" + +"But, Keith, he wouldn't mind; he wouldn't mind a bit," urged Susan, +"if he didn't know an'--" + +"Oh, no, he wouldn't mind being cheated and deceived and made a fool +of, just because he couldn't see!" + +"No, he wouldn't mind," persisted Susan stoutly. "It wouldn't be a +mean listenin', nor sneak listenin'. It wouldn't be listenin' to +things he didn't want us to hear. He'd be glad, after it was all done, +an'--" + +"Would he!" choked Keith, still more bitterly. "Maybe you think _I_ +was glad after it was all done, and I found I'd been fooled and +cheated into thinking the girl that was reading and talking to me and +playing games with me was a girl I had never known before--a girl who +was what she pretended to be, a new friend doing it all because she +wanted to, because she liked to." + +"But, Keith, I'm sure that Dorothy liked--" + +"There, there, Susan," interposed Keith, with quickly uplifted hand. +"We'll not discuss it, please, Yes, I know, I began the subject +myself, and it was my fault; but when I heard you say John McGuire +would be glad when he found out how we'd lied to his poor blind eyes, +I--I just couldn't hold it in. I had to say something. But never mind +that now, Susan; only you'll--you'll have to understand I mean what I +say. There's no letting dad copy that story on the sly." + +"But there's a way, there must be a way," argued Susan feverishly. +"Only think what it would mean to that boy if we could get him started +to writin' books--what he's wanted to do all his life. Oh, Keith, why, +he'd even forget his eyes then." + +"It would--help some." Keith drew in his breath and held it a moment +suspended. "And he'd even be helping us to win out--over there; for if +we could get that story of his on paper as he told it to me, the +fellow that reads it wouldn't need any recruiting station to send him +over there. If there was only a way that father could--" + +"There is, an' we'll find it," interposed Susan eagerly. "I know we +will. An' Keith, it's goin' to be 'most as good for him as it is for +John McGuire. He's nervous as a witch since he quit his job." + +"I know." A swift cloud crossed the boy's face. "But 'twasn't giving +up his job that's made him nervous, Susan, as you and I both know very +well. However, we'll see. And you may be sure if there is a way I'll +find it, Susan," he finished a bit wearily, as he turned to go +upstairs. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII + +THE WAY + + +Keith was still looking for "the way," when October came, bringing +crisp days and chilly winds. When not too cold, the boys still sat out +of doors. When it was too cold, John McGuire did not appear at all on +his back porch, and Keith did not have the courage to make a bold +advance to the McGuire door and ask admittance. There came a day, +however, when a cold east wind came up after they were well +established in their porch chairs for the morning. They were on the +Burton porch this time, and Keith suddenly determined to take the bull +by the horns. + +"Brrr! but it's cold this morning," he shivered blithely. "What say +you? Let's go in. Come on." And without waiting for acquiescence, he +caught John McGuire's arm in his own and half pulled him to his feet. +Before John McGuire knew then quite what was happening, he found +himself in the house. + +"No, no!--that is, I--I think I'd better be going home," he stammered. + +But Keith Burton did not seem even to hear. + +"Say, just try your hand at this puzzle," he was saying gayly. "I gave +it up, and I'll bet you'll have to," he finished, thrusting a +pasteboard box into his visitor's hands and nicely adjudging the +distance a small table must be pushed in order to bring it +conveniently in front of John McGuire's chair. + +The quick tightening of John McGuire's lips and the proud lifting of +his chin told that Keith's challenge had been accepted even before the +laconic answer came. + +"Oh, you do, do you? Well, we'll see whether I'll have to give it up +or not." + +John McGuire loved picture puzzles, as Keith Burton well knew. + +It was easy after that. Keith took it so unhesitatingly for granted +that they were to go indoors when it was cold that John McGuire found +it difficult to object; and it was not long before the two boys were +going back and forth between the two houses with almost as much ease +as if their feet had been guided by the eye instead of by the tap of a +slender stick. + +John McGuire was learning a great deal from Keith these days, though +it is doubtful if he realized it. It is doubtful, also, if he realized +how constantly he was being made to talk of the war and of his +experience in it. But Keith realized it. Keith was not looking for +"the way" now. He believed he had found it; and there came a day when +he deemed the time had come to try to carry it out. + +They were in his own home living-room. It had been a wonderful story +that John McGuire had told that day of a daring excursion into No +Man's Land, and what came of it. Upstairs in the studio Daniel Burton +was sitting alone, as Keith knew. Keith drew a long breath and made +the plunge. Springing to his feet he turned toward the door that led +into the hall. + +"McGuire, that was a bully story--a corking good story. I want dad to +hear it. Wait, I'll get him." And he was out of the room with the door +fast closed behind him before John McGuire could so much as draw a +breath. + +Upstairs, Daniel Burton, already in the secret, heard Keith's eager +summons and came at once. For some days he had been expecting just +such an urgent call from Keith's lips. He knew too much to delay. He +was down the stairs and at Keith's side in an incredibly short time. +Then together they pushed open the door and entered the living-room. + +John McGuire was on his feet. Very plainly he was intending to go +home, and at once. But Daniel Burton paid no attention to that. He +came straight toward him and took his hand. + +"I call this mighty good of you, McGuire," he said. "My boy here has +been raving about your stories of the war until I'm fairly green with +envy. Now I'm to hear a bit of them myself, he says. I wish you would +tell me some of your experiences, my lad. You know a chance like this +is a real god-send to us poor stay-at-homes. Now fire away! I'm +ready." + +But John McGuire was not ready. True, he sat down--but not until after +a confused "No, no, I must go home--that is, really, they're not worth +repeating--those stories." And he would not talk at all--at first. + +Daniel Burton talked, however. He talked of wars in general and of the +Civil War in particular; and he told the stories of Antietam and +Gettysburg as they had been told to him by his father. Then from +Gettysburg he jumped to Flanders, and talked of aeroplanes, and +gas-masks, and tanks, and trenches, and dugouts. + +Little by little then John McGuire began to talk--sometimes a whole +sentence, sometimes only a word or two. But there was no fire, no +enthusiasm, no impetuous rush of words that brought the very din of +battle to their ears. And not once did Daniel Burton thrust his +fingers into his pocket for his pencil and notebook. Yet, when it was +all over, and John McGuire had gone home, Keith dropped into his chair +with a happy sigh. + +"It wasn't much, dad, I know," he admitted, "but it was something. It +was a beginning, and a beginning is something--with John McGuire." + +And it was something; for the next time Daniel Burton entered the +room, John McGuire did not even start from his chair. He gave a faint +smile of welcome, too, and he talked sooner, and talked more--though +there was little of war talk; and for the second time Daniel Burton +did not reach for his pencil. + +But the third time he did. A question, a comment, a chance word--neither +Keith nor his father could have told afterward what started +it. They knew only that a sudden light as of a flame leaped into John +McGuire's face--and he was back in the trenches of France and carrying +them with him. + +At the second sentence Daniel Burton's fingers were in his pocket, and +at the third his pencil was racing over the paper at breakneck speed. +There was no pause then, no time for thought, no time for careful +forming of words and letters. There was only the breakneck race +between a bit of lead and an impassioned tongue; and when it was all +over, there were only a well-nigh hopeless-looking mass of +hieroglyphics in Daniel Burton's notebook--and the sweat of spent +excitement on the brows of two youths and a man. + +"Gee! we got it that time!" breathed Keith, after John McGuire had +gone home. + +"Yes; only I was wondering if I had really--got it," murmured Daniel +Burton, eyeing a bit ruefully the confused mass of words and letters +in his notebook. "Still, I reckon I can dig it out all right--if I do +it right away," he finished confidently. And he did dig it out before +he slept that night. + +If Daniel Burton and his son Keith thought the thing was done, and it +was going to be easy sailing thereafter, they found themselves greatly +mistaken. John McGuire scarcely said five sentences about the war the +next time they were together, though Daniel Burton had his pencil +poised expectantly from the start. He said only a little more the next +time, and the next; and Daniel Burton pocketed his pencil in despair. +Then came a day when a chance word about a new air raid reported in +the morning paper acted like a match to gunpowder, and sent John +McGuire off into a rapid-fire story that whipped Daniel Burton's +pencil from his pocket and set it to racing again at breakneck speed +to keep up with him. + +It was easier after that. Still, every day it was like a game of +hide-and-seek, with Daniel Burton and his pencil ever in pursuit, and +with now and then a casual comment or a tactful question to lure the +hiding story out into the open. Little by little, as the frank +comradeship of Daniel Burton won its way, John McGuire was led to talk +more and more freely; and by Christmas the eager scribe was in +possession of a very complete record of John McGuire's war experiences, +dating even from the early days of his enlistment. + +Day by day, as he had taken down the rough notes, Daniel Burton had +followed it up with a careful untangling and copying before he had had +a chance to forget, or to lose the wonderful glow born of the +impassioned telling. Then, from time to time he had sorted the notes +and arranged them in proper sequence, until now he had a complete +story, logical and well-rounded. + +It was on Christmas Day that he read the manuscript to Keith. At its +conclusion Keith drew a long, tremulous breath. + +"Dad, it's wonderful!" he exclaimed. "How did you do it?" + +"You know. You heard yourself." + +"Yes; but to copy it like that--! Why, I could hear him tell it as you +read it, dad. I could HEAR him." + +"Could you, really? I'm glad. That makes me know I've succeeded. Now +for a publisher!" + +"You wouldn't publish it without his--knowing?" + +"Certainly not. But I'm going to let a publisher see it, before he +knows." + +"Y-yes, perhaps." + +"Why, Keith, I'd have to do that. Do you suppose I'd run the risk of +its being turned down, and then have to tell that boy that he couldn't +have the book, after all?" + +"No, no, I suppose not. But--it isn't going to be turned down, dad. +Such a wonderful thing can't be turned down." + +"Hm-m; perhaps not." Daniel Burton's lips came together a bit grimly. +"But--there ARE wonderful things that won't sell, you know. However," +he finished with brisk cheerfulness, "this isn't one of my pictures, +nor a bit of Susan's free verse; so there's some hope, I guess. +Anyhow, we'll see--but we won't tell John until we do see." + +"All right. I suppose that would be best," sighed Keith, still a +little doubtfully. + +They had not long to wait, after all. In a remarkably short time came +back word from the publishers. Most emphatically they wanted the book, +and they wanted it right away. Moreover, the royalty they offered was +so good that it sent Daniel Burton down the stairs two steps at a time +like a boy, in his eagerness to reach Keith with the good news. + +"And now for John!" he cried excitedly, as soon as Keith's joyous +exclamations over the news were uttered. "Come, let's go across now." + +"But, dad, how--how are you going to tell him?" Keith was holding back +a little. + +"Tell him! I'm just going to tell him," laughed the man. "That's +easy." + +"I know; but--but----" Keith wet his lips and started again. "You see, +dad, he didn't know we were taking notes of his stories. He couldn't +see us. We--we took advantage of----" + +But Daniel Burton would not even listen. + +"Shucks and nonsense, Keith!" he cried. Then a little grimly he added: +"I only wish somebody'd take advantage like that of me, and sell a +picture or two when I'm not looking. Come, we're keeping John +waiting." And he took firm hold of his son's arm. + +Yet in the McGuire living-room, in the presence of John McGuire +himself, he talked fully five minutes of nothing in particular, before +he said: + +"Well, John, I've got some good news for you." + +"GOOD news?" + +"That's what I'd call it. I--er--hear you're going to have a book out +in the spring." + +"I'm going to--WHAT?" + +"Have a book out--war stories. They were too good to keep to +ourselves, John, so I jotted them down as you told them, and last week +I sent them off to a publisher." + +"A--a real publisher?" The boy's voice shook. Every trace of color had +drained from his face. + +"You bet your life--and one of the biggest in the country." Daniel +Burton's own voice was shaking. He had turned his eyes away from John +McGuire's face. + +"And they'll--print it?" + +"Just as soon as ever you'll sign the contract. And, by the way, that +contract happens to be a mighty good one, for a first book, my boy." + +John McGuire drew a long breath. The color was slowly coming back to +his face. + +"But I can't seem to quite--believe it," he faltered. + +"Nonsense! Simplest thing in the world," insisted Daniel Burton +brusquely. "They saw the stories, liked them, and are going to publish +them. That's all." + +"All! ALL!" The blind boy was on his feet, his face working with +emotion. "When all my life I've dreamed and dreamed and longed for----" +He stopped short and sat down. He had the embarrassed air the +habitually reserved person usually displays when caught red-handed +making a "scene." He gave a confused laugh. "I was only thinking--what +a way. You see--I'd always wanted to be a writer, but I'd given it up +long ago. I had my living to earn, and I knew I couldn't earn it--that +way--not at first. I used to say I'd give anything if I could write a +book; and I was just wondering if--if I'd been willing then to have +given--my eyes!" + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX + +DOROTHY TRIES HER HAND + + +It was on a mild day early in February that Susan met Dorothy Parkman +on the street. She stopped her at once. + +"Well, if I ain't glad to see you!" she cried. "I didn't know you'd +got back." + +"I haven't been back long, Susan." + +"You hain't been over to see us once, Miss Dorothy," Susan reproached +her. + +"I--I have been very busy." Miss Dorothy seemed ill at ease, and +anxious to get away. + +"An' you didn't come for a long, long time when you was here last +fall." Susan had laid a detaining hand on the girl's arm now. + +"Didn't I?" Miss Dorothy smiled brightly. "Well, perhaps I didn't. But +you didn't need me, anyway. I've heard all about it--the splendid work +Mr. Burton and his son have done for John McGuire. And I'm so glad." + +"Oh, yes, that's all right." Susan spoke without enthusiasm. + +"And the book is going to be published?" + +"Yes, oh, yes." Susan still spoke with a preoccupied frown. + +"Why, Susan, what's the matter? I thought you'd be glad." + +Susan drew a long sigh. + +"I am glad, Miss Dorothy. I'm awful glad--for John McGuire. They say +it's wonderful, the change in him already. He's so proud an' happy to +think he's done it--not sinfully proud, you understand, but just +humbly proud an' glad. An' his ma says he's writin' other things +now--poems an' stories, an' he's as happy as a lark all day. An' I'm +awful glad. But it's Keith hisself that I'm thinkin' of. You see, only +yesterday I found him--cryin'." + +"Crying!" Miss Dorothy seemed to have forgotten all about her haste to +get away. She had Susan's arm in HER grasp now. She had pulled her to +one side, too, where they could have a little sheltered place to talk, +in the angle of two store windows. + +"Yes, cryin'. You see, 't was like this," hurried on Susan. "Mis' +McGuire was over, an' I'd been readin' a new poem to her an' him. 'T +was a real pretty one, too, if I do say it as shouldn't--the best I +ever done; all about how fame an' beauty an' pleasure didn't count +nothin' beside workin'. I got the idea out of something I found in a +magazine. 'T was jest grand; an' it give me the perspiration right +away to turn it into a poem. An' I did. An' 't was that I was readin'. +I'd jest got it done that mornin'." + +"Yes, yes," nodded Miss Dorothy. "I see." + +"Well, I never thought of its meanin' anything to Keith, or of his +takin' it nohow wrong; but after Mis' McGuire had gone home (she came +out an' set with me a spell first in the kitchen) I heard a queer +little noise in the settin'-room, an' I went an' looked in. Keith was +at the table, his arms flung straight out in front of him, an' his +head bowed down. An', Miss Dorothy, he was cryin' like a baby." + +"Oh, Susan, what did you do? What did you say?" + +"Say? Nothin'!" Susan's eyes flashed her scorn. "Do you s'pose I'd let +that poor lamb know I see him cryin'? Well, I guess not! I backed out +as soft as a feather bed, an' I didn't go near that settin'-room for +an hour, nor let any one else. I was a regular dragon-fly guardin' it. +Well, by an' by Keith comes out. His face was white an' +strained-lookin'. But he was smiling, an' he handed out my poem--I'd +left it on the table when I come out with Mis' McGuire. 'I found this +paper on the table, Susan. It's your poem, isn't it?' he says real +cheerful-like. Then he turns kind of quick an' leaves the room without +another word. + +"Well, I didn't know then that't was the poem he'd been cryin' over. I +didn't know--till this mornin'. Then somethin' he said made me see +right off." + +"Why, Susan, what was it?" + +"It was somethin' about--work. But first you wouldn't understand it, +unless you see the poem. An' I can show it to you, 'cause I've got it +right here. I'm tryin' to memorialize it, so I keep it with me all the +time, an' repeat one line over an' over till I get it. It's right here +in my bag. You'll find it's the best I've wrote, Miss Dorothy; I'm +sure you will," she went on a bit wistfully. "You see I used a lot of +the words that was in the magazine--not that I pleasurized it any, of +course. Mine's different, 'cause mine is poetry an' theirs is prosy. +There! I guess maybe you can read it, even if't is my writin'," she +finished, taking a sheet of note-paper from her bag and carefully +spreading it out for Miss Dorothy to read. + +And this is what Dorothy read: + + CONTENTMENT + + Wealth + I asked for the earth--but when in my hands + It shriveled and crumbled away; + And the green of its trees and the blue of its skies + Changed to a somber gray. + + Beauty + I asked for the moon--but the shimmering thing + Was only reflected gold, + And vanished away at my glance and touch, + And was then but a tale that is told. + + Pleasure + I asked for the stars--and lots of them came, + And twinkled and danced for me; + But the whirling lights soon wearied my gaze-- + I squenched their flame in the sea. + + Fame + I asked for the sun!--but the fiery ball, + Brought down from its home on high, + Scorched and blistered my finger tips, + As I swirled it back to the sky. + + Labor + I asked for a hoe, and I set me to work, + And my red blood danced as I went: + At night I rested, and looking back, + I counted my day well spent. + +"But, Susan, I don't see," began Miss Dorothy, lifting puzzled eyes +from the last line of the poem, "I don't see what there is about that +to make Mr. Keith--cry." + +"No, I didn't, till this mornin'; an' then--Well, Keith came out into +the kitchen an' begun one of them tramps of his up an' down the room. +It always drives me nearly crazy when he does that, but I can't say +anything, of course. I did begin this mornin' to talk about John +McGuire an' how fine it was he'd got somethin' he could do. I +thought't would take the poor boy's mind off hisself, if I could get +him talkin' about John McGuire--he's been SO interested in John all +winter! An' so glad he could help him. You know he's always so wanted +to HELP somebody hisself instead of always havin' somebody helpin' +him. But, dear me, instead of its bein' a quieter now for him, it was +a regular stirrup. + +"'That's just it, that's just it, Susan,' he moans. 'You've got to +have work or you die. There's nothin' in the whole world like +work--YOUR WORK! John McGuire's got his work, an' I'm glad of it. But +where's mine? Where's mine, I tell you?' + +"An' I told him he'd jest been havin' his work, helpin' John McGuire. +You know it was wonderful, perfectly wonderful, Miss Dorothy, the way +them two men got hold of John McGuire. You know John wouldn't speak to +anybody, not anybody, till Keith an' his father found some way to get +on the inside of his shell. An' Keith's been so happy all winter doin' +it; an' his father, too. So I tried to remind him that he'd been doin' +his work. + +"But it didn't do no good. Keith said that was all very well, an' he +was glad, of course; but that was only a little bit of a thing, an' 't +was all past an' gone, an' John didn't need 'em any more, an' there +wasn't anything left for him now at all. Oh, Miss Dorothy, he talked +awfully. I never heard him run on so. An' I knew, from a lot of it +that he said, that he was thinkin' of that poem--he wouldn't ask for +wealth or beauty or fame, or anything, an' that there didn't anything +count but labor. You see?" + +"Yes, I--see." Miss Dorothy's voice was very low. Her face was turned +quite away, yet Susan was very sure that there were tears in her eyes. + +"An' his father!--he's 'most as bad as Keith," sighed Susan. "They're +both as nervous as witches, what with the war an' all, an' they not +bein' able to do anything. Oh, they do give money--lots of it--Liberty +Bonds an' Red Cross, an' drives, of course. You knew they'd got it +now--their money, didn't you, Miss Dorothy?" + +"Yes, I had heard so." + +"Not that it seems to do 'em any particular good," complained Susan +wistfully. "Oh, of course things ain't so--so ambiguous as they was, +an' we have more to eat an' wear, an' don't have to worry about bills. +But they ain't any happier, as I can see. If only Keith could find +somethin'--" + +"Yes, I know," sighed Miss Dorothy again, as she turned slowly away. +"I wish he--could." + +"Well, come to see us, won't you?" urged Susan anxiously. "That'll +help some--it'll help a lot." + +But Miss Dorothy did not seem to have heard. At least she did not +answer. Yet not twenty-four hours later she was ringing the Burtons' +doorbell. + +"No, no--not there! I want to see YOU," she panted a little +breathlessly, when Susan would have led the way to the living-room. + +"But Keith would be so glad--" begged Susan. + +"No, no! I particularly don't want him to know I am here," insisted +Dorothy. + +And without further ado, but with rebellious lips and eyes, Susan led +the way to the kitchen. + +"Susan, I have a scheme, I think, that may help out Mr. Keith," began +the young girl abruptly. "I'll have to begin by telling you something +of what I've seen during these last two or three months, while I've +been away. A Mr. Wilson, an old college friend of my father's, has +been taking a lot of interest in the blind--especially since the war. +He got to thinking of the blinded soldiers and wishing he could help +them. He had seen some of them in Canada, and talked with them. What +he thought of first for them was brooms, and basket-weaving and +chair-caning, same as everybody does. But he found they had a perfect +horror of those things. They said nobody bought such things except out +of pity--they'd rather have the machine-made kind. And these men didn't +want things bought of them out of pity. You see, they were big, well, +strong, young fellows, like John McGuire here; and they were groping +around, trying to find a way to live all those long years of darkness +that they knew were ahead of them. They didn't have any especial +talent. But they wanted to work,--do something that was necessary--not +be charity folks, as they called it." + +"I know," responded Susan sympathetically. + +"Well, this Mr. Wilson is at the head of a big electrical machinery +manufacturing company near Chicago, like Mr. Sanborn's here, you know. +And suddenly one day it came to him that he had the very thing right +in his own shop--a necessary kind of work that the blind could be +taught to do." + +"My lan', what was it? Think of blind folks goin' to work in a big +shop like Tom Sanborn's!" + +"I know it. But there was something. It was wrapping the coils of wire +with tape. Mr. Wilson said they used hundreds of thousands of these +coils all the time, and they had to be wrapped to insulate them. It +was this work that he believed the blind could learn to do. Anyhow, he +determined to try it. And try it he did. He sent for those soldiers he +had talked with in Canada, and he took two or three of father's +patients, and opened a little winding-room with a good electrical +engineer in charge. And, do you know? it was wonderful, the way those +poor fellows took hold of that work! Why, they got really skillful in +no time, and they learned to do it swiftly, too." + +"My lan'!" breathed Susan again. + +"They did. He took me in to see them one day. It was just a big room +on the ground floor of an office building. He didn't put them in his +shop. He said he wanted to keep them separate, for the present, +anyway. It had two or three long tables, and the superintendent moved +up and down the room overseeing their work, and helping where it was +necessary. There was a new man that morning, and it was perfectly +wonderful how he took hold of it. And they were all so happy, laughing +and talking, and having the best time ever; but they sobered up real +earnest when Mr. Wilson introduced one or two of them to me. One man +in particular--he was one of the soldiers, a splendid, great, blond +fellow six feet tall, and only twenty-one--told me what this work +meant to them; how glad they were to feel of real use in the world. +Then his face flushed, and his shoulders straightened a bit. 'And +we're even helping a little to win the war,' he said, 'for these coils +we are winding now are for some armatures to go in some big motors +that are going to be used in making munitions. So you see, we are +helping--a little.' Bless his heart! He didn't know how much he was +helping every one, just by his big, brave courage. + +"Well, Susan, all this gave me an idea, after what you said yesterday +about Mr. Keith. And I wondered--why couldn't he wind coils, too? And +maybe he'd get others to do it also. So I went to Mr. Sanborn, and +he's perfectly willing to let us give it a trial. He's pleased and +interested, and says he will furnish everything for the experiment, +including a first-class engineer to superintend; only he can't spend +any time over it himself, and we'll have to get somebody else to take +charge and make arrangements, about the place, and the starting of it, +and all that. And, Susan, now comes my second idea. Could we--do you +suppose we could get Mr. Daniel Burton to take charge of it?" + +"Oh, Miss Dorothy, if we only could!" + +"It would be so fine for Mr. Keith, and for all the others. I've been +hearing everywhere how wonderfully he got hold of John McGuire." + +"He did, he did," cried Susan, "an' he was like a different man all +the time he was doin' it. He hain't had no use for his paintin' +lately, an' he's been so uneasy. I'm sure he'll do it, if you ask +him." + +"Good! Then I will. Is--is he at home to-day?" + +"Yes, he's upstairs. I'll call him." Susan sprang to her feet with +alacrity. + +"But, Susan, just a minute!" Miss Dorothy had put out a detaining +hand. "Is--is Mr. Keith here, too?" + +"Yes, both of 'em. Keith is in the settin'-room an' I'll call his +father down. 'T won't take but jest a minute." Susan was plainly +chafing at the detaining hand. + +"No, no, Susan!" Miss Dorothy, too, had sprung to her feet. "If--if +Mr. Keith is here I'll wait. I want to see Mr. Daniel Burton +first--er--alone: to--to tell him about it, you know," she added +hastily, as Susan began to frown her disappointment. + +"But I don't see why," argued Susan, her disapproving eyes on the +girl's flushed cheeks. "I should think you'd want to talk it up with +both of 'em." + +"Yes, yes, of course; but not--not at first," stammered Miss Dorothy, +plainly growing more and more embarrassed as she tried to appear less +so. "I would rather--er--that is, I think it would be better to ask +Mr. Daniel Burton first, and then after we get it well started let him +tell his son. So I'll come to-morrow in the morning--at ten. Mr. Keith +is with Mr. John McGuire, then, isn't he? And over at his house? I +heard he was." + +"Yes, he is, most generally." + +"Then I'll come then. If--if you'll tell Mr. Daniel Burton, please," +hurried on Miss Dorothy, "and ask him to see me. And please, PLEASE +keep it from Mr. Keith, Susan. Truly, I don't want him to know a thing +about it till his father and I have--have got it all fixed up," she +finished. + +"But, Miss Dorothy, I know that Keith would want----" + +"Susan!" With an imperiousness quite foreign to her usual manner, Miss +Dorothy cut in sharply. "If you don't promise to speak only to Mr. +Daniel Burton about this matter I shall not come at all." + +"Oh, lan' sakes! Well, well, have it your own way," snapped Susan. + +"You promise?" + +"Yes, I promise." Susan's lips obeyed, but her eyes were still +mutinous. + +"Good! Thank you, Susan. Then I'll come to-morrow at ten," nodded Miss +Dorothy, once again her smiling, gracious self, as she turned to leave +the room. + + + + +CHAPTER XXX + +DANIEL BURTON'S "JOB" + + +Dorothy came at ten, or, to be strictly accurate, at five minutes past +ten. The additional five minutes had been consumed by her going out of +her way around the block so that she might see if Keith were visible +in one of the McGuires' windows. He was visible--and when she went up +the Burton walk at five minutes past ten, her step was confident and +her face eager; and there was about her manner none of the furtive, +nervous questioning that had marked her coming the day before. + +"Good-morning, Susan," she began cheerily, as Susan answered her ring. +"Did Mr. Burton say he would see me?" + +"He did. And Mr. Keith is over to the McGuires' all safe, so you don't +have to worry about him." Susan's eyes were still mutinous, her voice +still coldly disapproving. + +"Yes, I know he is," nodded Miss Dorothy with a bright smile. + +"Oh, you do!" + +"Yes. Well, that is--er--I--" Under Susan's uncompromising frigidity +Miss Dorothy's stammering tongue came to a painful pause. + +"Humph!" vouchsafed Susan. "Well, come in, an' I'll tell Mr. DANIEL +Burton you're here." + +That the emphasis on "Daniel" was not lost was shown by the sudden +broad smile that chased away the confusion on Miss Dorothy's face, as +Susan led the way to the living-room. Two minutes later Daniel Burton, +thinner, paler, and more worn-looking than Dorothy had ever seen him +before, entered the room and held out a cordial hand. + +"Good-morning, Miss Dorothy. I'm glad to see you," he said. "What is +it,--Red Cross, Y.M.C.A., Smileage Books?" The whimsical smile on his +lips only served to emphasize the somber pain in his eyes. + +"Not any of them. Then Susan didn't tell you?" + +"Not a word. Sit down, please." + +"Thank you. Then I shall have to begin at the beginning," sighed the +girl a little constrainedly as she took the chair he offered her. +"I--I have a certain project that I want to carry out, Mr. Burton, +and I--I want your help." + +"Why, of course--certainly. I shall be glad to, I know." Daniel +Burton's hand had already reached for his check-book. "Any project of +yours, Miss Dorothy--! How much do you want?" + +But Miss Dorothy lifted her hand, palm outward. + +"Thank you, Mr. Burton; but not any--in money, just yet. Oh, it'll +take money, probably, to get it started, before it's on a +self-supporting basis, I suppose. But it isn't money I want to-day, +Mr. Burton. It--it's yourself." + +The man gave a short, dry laugh, not untinged with bitterness. + +"I'm afraid I can't endorse either your taste or your judgment there, +Miss Dorothy. You've come for a poor stick. I can't imagine myself as +being much benefit to any sort of project. However, I shall be glad to +hear about it, of course. What is it?" + +And Miss Dorothy told him. With her eyes shining, and her voice +quivering with eagerness, she told the story as she had told it to +Susan the afternoon before, but with even greater elaboration of +detail. + +"And so now, Mr. Burton, you--you will help, won't you?" she begged, +in closing. + +"Help! But my dear girl, how?" + +"Take charge. Be the head and shoulders, the backbone of the whole +thing. Oh, yes, I know it's a whole lot to ask," she hurried on, as +she saw the dawning dismay and refusal in his face. "But I thought, +for the sake of the cause--" + +"The cause!" The man's voice was bitter as he interrupted her. "I'd +crawl to France on my hands and knees if that would do any good! But, +my dear young lady, I'm an ignoramus, and worse than an ignoramus, +when it comes to machinery. I'll venture to wager that I wouldn't know +the tape from the coils--or whatever they are." + +"Oh, we'd have an engineer for that part, of course," interposed the +girl eagerly. "And we want your son, too." + +"You want Keith! Pray, do you expect him to teach how to wind coils?" + +"No--no--not exactly;--though I think he will be teaching before he +realizes it. I want him to learn to wind them himself, and thus get +others to learn. You don't understand, Mr. Burton. I want you and Mr. +Keith to--to do just what you did for John McGuire--arouse interest +and enthusiasm and get them to do it. Don't you see?" + +"But that was Keith, not I, in the case of John McGuire." + +"It was you at the last," corrected the girl gently. "Mr. Burton, John +McGuire wouldn't have any book out this spring if it weren't for you +and--your eyes." + +"Hm-m, perhaps not. Still there'd have been a way, probably. But even +if I grant that--all you say in the case of John McGuire--that isn't +winding armatures, or whatever they are." + +"Mr. Burton, you aren't going to refuse," pleaded the girl. + +"What else can I do? Miss Dorothy, you don't want to stamp this +project of yours a FAILURE from the start, do you?" Words, voice, +manner, and gesture were unmistakable. All the longing and heartache +and bitterness of years of fruitless effort and final disappointment +pulsated through that one word FAILURE. + +For a moment nobody spoke. Daniel Burton had got to his feet and +crossed the room to the window. The girl, watching him with +compassionate eyes as he stood looking out, had caught her breath with +a little choking sigh. Suddenly she lifted her head resolutely. + +"Mr. Burton, you've got one gift that--that I don't believe you +realize at all that you possess. Like John McGuire you can make folks +SEE what you are talking about. Perhaps it's because you can paint +pictures with a brush. Or--or perhaps it's because you've got such a +wonderful command of words." (Miss Dorothy stumbled a little +precipitately into this sentence--she had not failed to see the +disdainful movement of the man's head and shoulders at the mention of +his pictures.) "Whatever it is," she hurried on, "you've got it. I saw +it first years ago, with--with your son, when I used to see him at +father's. He would sit and talk to me by the hour about the woods and +fields and mountains, the sunsets and the flowers back home; and +little by little I found out that they were the pictures you drew for +him--on the canvas of his soul. You've done it again now for John +McGuire. Do you suppose you could have caught those wonderful stories +of his with your pencil, if you hadn't been able to help him visualize +them for himself--you and Keith together with your wonderful +enthusiasm and interest? + +"I know you couldn't. And that's what I want you now for--you and your +son. Because he is blind, and knows, and understands, as no seeing +person can know and understand, they will trust him; they will follow +where he leads. But behind him has got to be YOU. You've got to be the +eyes for--for them all; not to teach the work--we'll have others for +that. Any good mechanic will do for that part. But it's the other part +of it--the soul of the thing. These men, lots of them, are but little +more than boys--big, strong, strapping fellows with the whole of life +before them. And they are--blind. Whichever way they turn a big black +curtain shuts them in. And it's those four black curtains that I want +you to paint. I want you to give them something to look at, something +to think of, something to live for. And you can do it. And when you +have done it, you'll find they're the best and--and the biggest +pictures you ever painted." Her voice broke with the last word and +choked into silence. + +Over at the window the man stood motionless. One minute, two minutes +passed. Then a bit abruptly he turned, crossed the room to the girl's +side, and held out his hand. + +"Miss Dorothy, I--I'll take the job," he said. + +He spoke lightly, and he smiled as he said the words; but neither the +smile nor the lightness of his manner quite hid the shake in his voice +nor the moisture in his eyes. + +"Thank you, Mr. Burton. I was sure you would," cried the girl. + +"And now for Keith! He's over to the McGuires'. I'll get him!" +exclaimed the man boyishly. + +But Miss Dorothy was instantly on her feet. + +"No, no, please," she begged a little breathlessly. "I'd rather you +didn't--now. I--I think we'd better get it a little farther along +before we tell him. There's a whole lot to do, you know--getting the +room and the materials and the superintendent, and all that; and there +isn't a thing he can do--yet." + +"All right. Very good. Perhaps that would be better," nodded the man. +"But, let me tell you, I already have some workers for your project." + +"You mean Jack Green, here in town?" + +"No. Oh, we'd want him, of course; but it's some others--a couple of +boys from Hillsboro. I had a letter yesterday from the father of one +of the boys, asking what to do with his son. He thought because of--of +Keith, that I could help him. It was a pitiful letter. The man was +heart-broken and utterly at sea. His boy--only nineteen--had come home +blind, and well-nigh crazed with the tragedy of it. And the father +didn't know which way to turn. That's why he had appealed to me. You +see, on account of Keith--" + +"Yes, I understand," said the girl gently, as the man left his +sentence unfinished. + +"I've had others, too--several of them--in the last few weeks. If +you'll wait I'll get the letters." He was already halfway to the door. +"It may take a minute or two to look them up; but--they'll be worth +it, I think." + +"Of course they will," she cried eagerly. "They'll be just exactly +what we want, and I'm not in a bit of a hurry," she finished, dropping +back in her chair as the door closed behind him. + +Alone, she looked about the room, her eyes wistful, brimming with +unshed tears. Over by the window was Keith's chair, before it the +table, with a half-completed picture puzzle spread upon it. Near the +table was a set of shelves containing other picture puzzles, games, +and books--all, as the girl well knew, especially designed and +constructed for eyes that could not see. + +She had risen to her feet and half started to cross the room toward +the table when the door to the side hall opened and Keith Burton +entered the room. + +With a half-stifled gasp the girl stepped back to her chair. The blind +boy stopped instantly, his face turned toward her. + +"Is that--you, Susan?" + +The girl wet her lips, but no words came. + +"Who's there, please?" He spoke sharply this time. As everybody +knew--who knew Keith--the one thing that angered him more than anything +else was the attempted deception as to one's presence in the room. + +Miss Dorothy gave a confused little laugh, and put her hand to her +throat. + +"Why, Keith, it's only I! Don't look so--" + +"You?" For one brief moment his face lighted up as with a hidden +flame; then instantly it changed. It became like the gray of ashes +after the flame is spent. "Why didn't you speak, then?" he questioned. +"It did no good to keep quiet. You mustn't forget that I have ears--if +I haven't eyes." + +"Nonsense, Keith!" She laughed again confusedly, though her own face +had paled a little. "I did speak as soon as I caught my +breath;--popping in on a body like that!" + +"But I didn't know--you were here," stammered the young fellow +uncertainly. "Nobody called me. I beg your pardon if--" He came to a +helpless pause. + +"Not a bit of it! You needn't. It wasn't necessary at all." The girl +tossed off the words with a lightness so forced that it was almost +flippancy. "You see, I didn't come to see you at all. It was your +father." + +"My father!" + +"Certainly." + +"But--but does he know?" + +The girl laughed merrily--too merrily for sincerity. + +"Know? Indeed he does. We've just been having a lovely talk. He's gone +upstairs for some letters. He's coming right back--right back." + +"Oh-h!" Was it an indefinable something in her voice, or was it the +repetition of the last two words? Whatever it was that caused it, +Keith turned away with a jerk, walked with the swift sureness of long +familiarity straight to the set of shelves and took down a book. "Then +I'll not disturb you any further--as long as you're not needing me," +he said tersely. "I only came for this." And with barely a touch of +his cane to the floor and door-casing, he strode from the room. + +The pity of it--that he could not have seen Dorothy Parkman's eyes +looking after him! + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI + +WHAT SUSAN DID NOT SEE + + +There was apparently no limit to Daniel Burton's enthusiastic +cooperation with Dorothy Parkman on the matter of establishing a +workroom for the blind. He set to work with her at once. The very next +morning after her initial visit, he went with her to Mazie Sanborn's +father, and together they formulated the first necessary plans. + +Thomas Sanborn was generous, and cordially enthusiastic, though his +words and manner carried the crisp terseness of the busy man whose +time is money. At the end of five minutes he summoned one David Patch +to the office, and introduced him to Miss Dorothy and Daniel Burton as +one of his most expert engineers. + +"And now I'll turn the whole thing over to you," he declared briskly, +with his finger already on the button that would summon his +stenographer for dictation. "Just step into that room there and stay +as long as you like. Whatever Patch says I'll back up. You'll find him +thoroughly capable and trustworthy. And now good luck to you," he +finished, throwing wide the door of the adjoining room. + +The next moment Miss Dorothy and Daniel Burton found themselves alone +with the keen-eyed, alert little man who had been introduced as David +Patch. And David Patch did, indeed, appear to be very capable. He +evidently understood his business, and he gave interested attention to +Miss Dorothy's story of what she had seen, and of what she wished now +to try to do. He took them then for a tour of the great shop, +especially to the department where the busy fingers were winding with +tape the thousands of wire coils. + +Miss Dorothy's eyes sparkled with excitement, and she fairly clapped +her hands in her delight, while Daniel Burton said that even he could +see the possibilities of that kind of work for their purpose. + +At the end of a long hour of talking and planning, Miss Dorothy and +Daniel Burton started for home. But even then Daniel Burton had yet +more to say, for at his gate, which was on Miss Dorothy's way home, he +begged her to come in for a moment. + +"I had another letter to-day about a blind soldier--this time from +Baltimore. I want to show it to you. You see, so many write to me, on +account of my own boy. You will come in, just a minute?" + +"Why, yes, of course I--will." The pause, and the half-stifled word +that finished the sentence came as the tall figure of Keith Burton +turned the corner of the piazza and walked toward the steps. + +"Hullo! Dad?" Keith's voice was questioning. + +"Yes; and--" + +"And Dorothy Parkman," broke in the girl with a haste so precipitate +as to make her almost choke. + +"Miss Parkman?" Once again, for a moment, Keith's face lighted as with +a flame. "Come up. Come around on the south side," he cried eagerly. +"I've been sunning myself there. You'd think it was May instead of +March." + +"No, she can't go and sun herself with you," interposed Daniel Burton +with mock severity. "She's coming with me into the house. I want to +show her something." + +"Well, I--I like that," retorted the youth. He spoke jauntily, and +gave a short little laugh. But the light had died from his face and a +slow red had crept to his forehead. + +"Well, she can't. She's coming with me," reiterated the man. "Now run +back to your sun bath. If you're good maybe we'll be out pretty soon," +he laughed back at his son, as he opened the house door for his guest. +"That's right--you didn't want him to know, yet, did you?" he added, +looking a bit anxiously into the girl's somewhat flushed face as he +closed the hall door. + +"Quite right. No, I don't want him to know yet. There's so much to be +done to get started, and he'd want to help. And he couldn't help about +that part; and't would only fret him and make him unhappy." + +"My idea exactly," nodded the man. "When we get the room, and the +goods there, we'll want to tell him then." + +"Of course, you'll tell him then," cried the girl. + +"Yes, indeed, of course we will!" exclaimed the man, very evidently +not noticing the change in the pronoun. "Now, if you'll wait a minute +I'll get that letter, then we'll go out to Keith on the piazza." + +It was a short letter, and one quickly read; and very soon they were +out on the piazza again. But Miss Dorothy said "No, no!" very hastily +when he urged her to go around on the other side; and she added, "I +really must go home now," as she hurried down the steps. Daniel Burton +went then around the corner of the piazza to explain her absence to +his son Keith. But he need not have hurried. His son Keith was not +there. + +For all the good progress that was made on that first day, things +seemed to move a bit slowly after that. To begin with, the matter of +selecting a suitable room gave no little difficulty. The right room in +the right location seemed not to be had; and Daniel Burton even +suggested that they use some room in his own house. But after a little +thought he gave up this idea as being neither practical nor desirable. + +Meanwhile he was in daily communication with Dorothy Parkman, and the +two spent hours together, thrashing out the different problems one by +one as they arose, sometimes at her home, more frequently at his; for +"home" to Dorothy in Hinsdale meant the Sanborn house, where Mazie was +always in evidence--and Daniel Burton did not care for Mazie. +Especially he did not care for her advice and assistance on the +problems that were puzzling him now. + +To be sure, at his own home there was Keith; but he contrived to avoid +Keith on most occasions. Besides, Keith himself seemed quite inclined +to keep out of the way (particularly if he heard the voice of Dorothy +Parkman), which did not disturb Daniel Burton in the least, under the +circumstances. Until they got ready to tell Keith, he was rather glad +that he did keep so conveniently out of the way. And as Dorothy seemed +always glad to avoid seeing Keith or talking to him, there was really +very little trouble on that score; and they could have their +consultations in peace and quietness. + +And there were so many of them--those consultations! When at last the +room was found, there were the furnishings to select, and the final +plans to be made for the real work to be done. David Patch proved +himself to be invaluable then. As if by magic a long table appeared, +and the coils and the tape, and all the various paraphernalia of a +properly equipped winding-room marched smoothly into place. Meanwhile +three soldiers and one civilian stood ready and eager to be taught, +needing only the word of command to begin. + +"And now we'll tell Keith," said Daniel Burton. + +"Yes; now you must tell Keith," said Miss Dorothy. + +"To-morrow at nine." + +"To-morrow at nine," bowed Miss Dorothy. + +"I'll bring him down and we'll show him." + +"And I do so hope he'll like it." + +"Of course, he'll like it!" cried Daniel Burton. "You wait and see." + +But she did not see. She was not there to see. + +Promptly at nine o'clock Daniel Burton appeared at the winding-room +with Keith. But Dorothy Parkman was nowhere in sight. He waited ten, +fifteen minutes; then he told Keith the story of the room, and of what +they hoped to do there, fuming meanwhile within himself because he had +to tell it alone. + +But it was not lack of interest that kept Miss Dorothy away. It could +not have been; for that very afternoon she sought Daniel Burton out +and asked eagerly what his son had said, and how he had taken it. And +her eyes shone and her breath quickened at the story Daniel Burton +told; and so eager was she to know every little word that had fallen +from Keith's lips that she kept Daniel Burton repeating over and over +each minute detail. + +Yet the next day when Keith and four other blind youths began work in +earnest, she never once went near Keith's chair, though she went often +to the others, dropping here and there a word of encouragement or a +touch of aiding fingers. When night came, however, and she found an +opportunity for a few words alone with Daniel Burton, she told him +that, in her opinion, Keith had done the best work of the five, and +that it was perfectly marvelous the way he was taking hold. And again +her eyes sparkled and her breath quickened; and she spent the entire +ten minutes talking about Keith to his father. Yet the next day, when +the work began again, she still went to the back of every chair but +Keith's. + +Things happened very rapidly after that. It was not a week before the +first long table in the big room was filled with eager workers, and +the second one had to be added to take care of the newcomers. + +The project was already the talk of the town, and not the least +excited and interested of the observers was John McGuire's mother. +When the news came of the second table's being added to the equipment +of the place, she hurried over to Susan's kitchen without delay--though +with the latest poem of her son's as the ostensible excuse. + +"It's 'The Stumbling-Block,'" she announced. "He just got it done +yesterday, an' I copied it for you. I think it's the best yet," she +beamed, handing over a folded paper. "It's kind of long, so don't stop +to read it now. Say, is it true? Have they had to put in another table +at that blind windin'-room?" + +"They have." + +"Well, if that ain't the greatest! I think it's just grand. They took +my John down there to see the place yesterday. Do you know? That boy +is a different bein' since his book an' his writin'. An' he's learnin' +to do such a lot of things for himself, an' he's so happy in it! An' +he doesn't mind seein' anybody now. An' it's all owin' to your +wonderful Keith an' his father. I wouldn't ever have believed it of +them." + +Susan's chin came up a bit. + +"I would. I KNEW. An' I always told you that Daniel Burton was a +superlative man in every way, an' his son's jest like him. Only you +wouldn't believe me." + +"Nobody'd believe you," maintained Mrs. McGuire spiritedly. "Nobody'd +believe such a thing could be as my John bein' changed like that--an' +all those others down to the windin'-room, too. They say it's +perfectly marvelous what Keith an' his father are doin' with those men +an' boys. Aren't they awful happy over it--Keith an' his father, I +mean?" + +"Daniel Burton is. Why, he's like a different man, Mis' McGuire. You'd +know that, jest to see him walk, an' hear him speak. An' I don't hear +nothin' more about his longin' to get over there. I guess he thinks +he's got work enough to do right here. An' he hardly ever touches his +war maps these days." + +"But ain't Keith happy, too?" + +"Y-yes, an' no," hesitated Susan, her face clouding a little. "Oh, +he's gone into it heart an' soul; an' while he's workin' on somethin' +he's all right. But when it's all quiet, an' he's settin' alone, I +don't like the look on his face. But I know he's glad to be helpin' +down there; an' I know it's helpin' him, too." + +"It's helpin' everybody--not forgettin' Miss Dorothy Parkman," added +Mrs. McGuire, with a smile and a shrug, as she rose to go. "But, then, +of course, we all know what she's after." + +"After! What do you mean?" + +"Susan Betts!" With a jerk Mrs. McGuire faced about. "It ain't +possible, with eyes in your head, that you hain't seen!" + +"Seen what?" + +"Well, my lan'! With that girl throwin' herself at Daniel Burton's +head for the last six weeks, an' you calmly set there an' ask 'seen +what?'!" + +"Daniel Burton--Dorothy Parkman!" There was no mistaking Susan's +dumfounded amazement. + +"Yes, Daniel Burton an' Dorothy Parkman. Oh, I used to think it was +Keith; but when the money came to old Daniel I guess she thought he +wasn't so old, after all. Besides, Keith, with his handicap--you +couldn't blame the girl, after all, I s'pose." + +"Daniel Burton an' Dorothy Parkman!" repeated Susan, this time with +the faintness of stupefaction. + +"Why, Susan, you must've seen it--her runnin' in here every day, +walkin' home with him, an' talk, talk, talkin' to him every chance she +gets!" + +"But, they--they've been makin' plans for--for the work," murmured +Susan. + +"Work! Well, I guess it no need to've taken quite so many +consultations for just the work. Besides, she never thought of such a +scheme as this before the money came, did she? Not much she did! Oh, +come, Susan, wake up! She'll be walkin' off with him right under your +nose if you don't look out," finished Mrs. McGuire with a sly laugh, +as she took her departure. + +Left alone, Susan sat for some time absorbed in thought, a deep frown +on her face; then with a sigh and a shrug, as if throwing off an +incomprehensible burden, she opened the paper Mrs. McGuire had left +with her. + +Once, twice, three times she read the verses; then with a low chuckle +she folded up the paper, tucked it into her apron pocket, and rose to +her feet. A minute later she had attacked the pile of dishes in the +sink, and was singing lustily: + +"I've taken my worries, an' taken my woes, + I have, I have, + An' shut 'em up where nobody knows, + I have, I have. + I chucked 'em down, that's what I did, + An' now I'm sittin' upon the lid, + An' we'll all feel gay when Johnny comes marchin' home. + I'm sittin' upon the lid, I am, + Hurrah! Hurrah! + I'm tryin' to be a little lamb, + Hurrah! Hurrah! + But I'm feelin' more like a great big slam + Than a nice little peaceful woolly lamb, + But we'll all feel gay when Johnny comes marchin' home." + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII + +THE KEY + + +There was no work at the winding-room Saturday afternoons, and it was +on Saturday afternoon that Susan found Keith sitting idle-handed in +his chair by the window in the living-room. + +As was her custom she spoke the moment she entered the room--but not +before she had noted the listless attitude and wistful face of the +youth over by the window. + +"Keith, I've been thinkin'." + +"Bad practice, Susan--sometimes," he laughed whimsically. + +"Not this time." + +"Poetry?" + +She shook her head. + +"No. I ain't poetizin' so much these days, though I did write one +yesterday--about the ways of the world. I'm goin' to read it to you, +too, by an' by. But that's jest a common poem about common, every-day +folks. An' this thing I was thinkin' about was--was diff'rent." + +"And so you couldn't put this into a poem--eh?" + +Susan shook her head again and sighed. + +"No. An' it's been that way lots o' times lately, 'specially since I +seen John McGuire's poems--so fine an' bumtious! Oh, I have the +perspiration to write, lots o' times, an' I yield up to it an' write. +But somehow, when it's done, I hain't said a mite what I want to, an' +I hain't said it the way I want to, either. I think maybe havin' so +many of 'em disinclined by them editors has made me kinder fearsome." + +"I'm afraid it has, Susan," he smiled. + +"Now, this afternoon, what I was thinkin' about--once I'd've made a +poem of that easy; but to-day I didn't even try. I KNEW I couldn't do +it. An', say, Keith, it was you I was thinkin' about." + +"Heavens, Susan! A poem out of me? No wonder your muse balked! I'm +afraid you'd find even--er--perspiration wouldn't make a poem out of +me." + +"Keith, do you remember?" Susan was still earnest and preoccupied. "I +told you once that it didn't make no diff'rence if God had closed the +door of your eyes. He'd open up another room to you sometime, an' give +you the key to unlock the door. An' he has. An' now you've got it--that +key." + +"I've got it--the key!" + +"Yes. It's that work down there--helpin' them blind men an' boys to +get hold of their souls again. Oh, Keith, don't you see? An' it's such +a big, wide room that God has given you, an' it's all yours. There +ain't no one that can help them poor blind soldiers like you can. An' +you couldn't 'a' done it if the door of your eyes hadn't been shut +first. That was what give you the key to this big, beautiful room of +helpin' our boys what's come back to us, blinded, an' half-crazed with +despair an' discouragement. Oh, if I only could make you see it the +way I do! But I can't say it--the right way. There's such a big, +beautiful idea there, if only I could make you see it. That's why I +wanted to write the poem." + +"I can see it, Susan--without the poem." Keith was not smiling now. +His face was turned away and his voice had grown a bit unsteady. "And +I'm glad you showed it to me. It's going to help me a whole lot if--if +I'll just keep remembering that key, I think." + +Susan threw a quick look into Keith's averted face, then promptly she +reached for the folded paper in her apron pocket. + +There were times when Susan was wise beyond her station as to when the +subject should be changed. + +"An' now I'm goin' to read you the poem I did write," she announced +briskly--"about every-day folks--diff'rent kinds of folks. Six of 'em. +It shows that there ain't any one anywhere that's really satisfied +with their lot, when you come right down to it, whether they've got +eyes or not." + +And she began to read: + + THE WAY OF THE WORLD + + A beggar girl on the curbstone sat, + All ragged an' hungry-eyed. + Across the street came Peggy McGee; + The beggar girl saw an' sighed. + + "I wish'd I was rich--as rich as she, + For she has got things to eat; + An' clo's an' shoes, an' a place to live, + An' she don't beg in the street." + + When Peggy McGee the corner turned, + SHE climbed to her garret high + From there she gazed through curtainless panes + At hangin's of lace near by. + + "Ah, me!" sighed Peggy. "If I had those + An' rugs like hers on the floor, + It seems to me that I'd never ask + For nothin' at all no more." + + . . . . . + + From out those curtains that selfsame day, + Looked a face all sour an' thin. + "I hate to live on this horrid street, + In the children's yellin' din! + + "An' where's the good of my nice new things, + When nobody'll see or know? + I really think that I ought to be + A-livin' in Rich Man's Row." + + A carriage came from "Rich Man's Row," + An' rumbled by to the park. + A lady sat on the carriage seat; + "Oh, dear," said she, "what an ark! + + "If only this coach could show some style, + My clothes, so shabby, would pass. + Now there's an auto quite my kind-- + But 'tisn't my own--alas!" + + The "auto" carried a millionaire, + Whose brow was knotted an' stern. + "A million is nowhere, now," thought he, + "That's somethin' we all must learn. + + "It's millions MANY one has to have, + To be in the swim at all. + This tryin' to live when one is so poor + Is really all folderol!" + + . . . . . + + A man of millions was just behind; + The beggar was passin' by. + Business at beggin' was good that day, + An' the girl was eatin' pie. + + The rich man looked, an' he groaned aloud, + An' swore with his gouty pain. + "I'd give my millions, an' more beside, + Could I eat like that again!" + +"Now, ain't that jest like folks?" Susan demanded, as she finished the +last verse. + +Keith laughed. + +"I suspect it is, Susan. And--and, by the way, I shouldn't wonder if +this were quite the right time to show that I'm no different from +other folks. You see, I, too,--er--am going to make a change--in +living." + +"A change in living! What do you mean?" + +"Oh, not now--not quite yet. But you see I'VE been doing some +thinking, too. I've been thinking that if father--that is, WHEN father +and Miss Parkman are married--that--" + +But Susan interrupted with a groan. + +"My sakes, Keith, have you seen it, too?" + +Keith laughed embarrassedly. + +"To be sure I have! You don't have to have eyes to see that, do you, +Susan?" + +"Oh, good lan', I don't know," frowned Susan irritably. "I didn't +s'pose----" + +She did not finish her sentence, and after a moment's silence Keith +began again to speak. + +"I've been talking a little to David Patch--the superintendent, you +know. We're going to take the whole house where we are, for our work, +pretty quick, and when we do, Patch and his wife will come there to +live upstairs; and they'll take me to board. I asked them. Then I'll +be right there handy all the time, you see, which will be a fine +arrangement all around." + +"A fine arrangement, indeed--with you 'way off down there, an' livin' +with David Patch!" + +"But, Susan," argued Keith, a bit wearily, "I couldn't be living here, +you know." + +"I should like to know why not." + +"Because I--couldn't." He had grown very white now. "Besides, I--I +think they would be happier without me here; and I know--I should be." +His voice was low and almost indistinct, but Susan heard--and +understood. "The very fact that once I--I thought--that I was foolish +enough to think--But, of course, as soon as I remembered my +blindness--And to tie a beautiful young girl down to--" He stopped +short and pulled himself up. "Susan, are you still there?" + +"I'm right here, Keith." Susan spoke constrainedly. + +He gave an embarrassed laugh. A painful red had suffused his face. + +"I'm afraid I got to talking--and forgetting that I wasn't--alone," he +stumbled on hurriedly. "I--I meant to go on to say that I hoped they'd +be very happy. Dad deserves it; and--and if they'd only hurry up and +get it over with, it--it would be easier--for me. Not that it matters, +of course. Dad has had an awful lot to put up with me already, as it +is, you know--the trouble, the care, and the disappointment. You see, +I--I was going to make up to him for all he had lost. I was going to +be Jerry and Ned and myself, all in a bunch. And now to turn out to be +nothing--and worse than nothing----" + +"Keith Burton, you stop!" It was the old imperious Susan back again. +"You stop right where you be. An' don't you never let me hear you say +another word about your bein' a disappointment. Jerry an' Ned, indeed! +I wonder if you think a dozen Jerrys an' Neds could do what you've +done! An' no matter what they done, they couldn't have done a bigger, +splendider thing than you've done in triumphating over your blindness +the way you've done, nor one that would make your father prouder of +you! An' let me tell you another thing, Keith Burton. No matter what +you done--no matter how many big pictures you painted, or big books +you wrote, or how much money you made for your dad; there ain't +anything you could've done that would do him so much solid good as +what you have done." + +"Why, Susan, are you wild? I haven't done a thing, not a thing for +dad." + +"Yes, you have. You've done the biggest thing of all by NEEDIN' him." + +"Needing him!" + +"Yes. Keith Burton, look at your father now. Look at the splendid work +he's doin'. You know as well as I do that he used to be a thoroughly +insufficient, uncapacious man (though I wouldn't let anybody else say +it!), putterin' over a mess of pictures that wouldn't sell for a +nickel. An' that he used to run from anything an' everything that was +unpropitious an' disagreeable, like he was bein' chased. Well, then +you was took blind. An' what happened? + +"You know what happened. He came right up an' toed the mark like a man +an' a gentleman. An' he's toed it ever since. An' I can tell you that +the pictures he's paintin' now with his tongue for them poor blind +boys to see is bigger an' better than any pictures he could have +painted with--with his pigmy paints if he worked on 'em for a thousand +years. An' it's YOU that's done it for him, jest by needin' him. So +there!" + +And before Keith could so much as open his lips, Susan was gone, +slamming the door behind her. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII + +AND ALL ON ACCOUNT OF SUSAN + + +Not one wink did Susan Betts sleep that night. To Susan her world was +tumbling about her ears in one dizzy whirl of destruction. + +Daniel Burton and Dorothy Parkman married and living there, and her +beloved blind boy banished to a home with one David Patch? +Unthinkable! And yet---- + +Well, if it had got to be, it had got to be, she supposed--the +marriage. But they might at least be decent about it. As for keeping +that poor blind boy harrowed up all the time and prolonging the +agony--well, at least she could do something about THAT, thank +goodness! And she would, too. + +When there was anything that Susan could do--particularly in the line +of righting a wrong--she lost no time in doing it. Within two days, +therefore, she made her opportunity, and grasped it. A little +peremptorily she informed Miss Dorothy Parkman that she would like to +speak to her, please, in the kitchen. Then, tall, and cold, and very +stern, she faced her. + +"Of course, I understand, Miss Dorothy, I'm bustlin' in where I hain't +no business to. An' I hain't no excuse to offer except my boy, Keith. +It's for him I'm askin' you to do it." + +"To do--what, Susan?" She had changed color slightly, as she asked the +question. + +"Not let it be seen so plain--the love-makin'." + +"Seen! Love-making!" gasped the girl. + +"Well, the talkin' to him, then, an' whisperin', an' consultin's, an' +runnin' here every day, an'----" + +"I beg your pardon, Susan," interrupted the girl incisively. She had +grown very white. "I am tempted to make no sort of reply to such an +absurd accusation; but I'm going to say, however, that you must be +laboring under some mistake. I do not come here to see Mr. Keith +Burton, and I've scarcely exchanged a dozen words with him for +months." + +"I'm talkin' about Mr. Daniel, not Keith, an'----" + +"Mr. DANIEL Burton!" + +"Of course! Who else?" Susan was nettled now, and showed it. "I don't +s'pose you'll deny runnin' here to see him, an' talkin' to him, an'--" + +"No, no, wait!--wait! Don't say any more, PLEASE!" The girl was half +laughing, half crying, and her face was going from white to red and +back to white again. "Am I to understand that I am actually being +accused of--of running after Mr. Daniel Burton?--of--of love-making +toward HIM?" she choked incoherently. + +"Why, y-yes; that is--er----" + +"Oh, this is too much, too much! First Keith, and now--" She broke off +hysterically. "To think that--Oh, Susan, how could you, how could +you!" And this time she dropped into a chair and covered her face with +her hands. But she was laughing. Very plainly she was laughing. + +Susan frowned, stared, and frowned again. + +"Then you ain't in love with--" Suddenly her face cleared, and broke +into a broad smile. "Well, my lan', if that ain't the best joke ever! +Of course, you ain't in love with him! I don't believe I ever more 'n +half believed it, anyway. Now it'll be dead easy, an' all right, too." + +"But--but what does it all mean?" stammered the girl. + +"Why, it's jest that--that everybody thought you was after him, an't +would be a match--you bein' together so much. But even then I wouldn't +have said a thing if it hadn't been for Keith." + +"Keith!" + +"Yes--poor boy, he--an' it WAS hard for him, seein' you two together +like this, an' thinkin' you cared for each other. An' he'd got his +plans all made how when you was married he'd go an' live with David +Patch." + +"David Patch! But--why?" + +"Why, don't you see? 'T wouldn't be very easy to see you married to +another man, would it?--an' lovin' you all the time hisself, an'--" + +"LOVING ME!" + +"That's what I said." Susan's lips came sharply together and her keen +eyes swept the girl's face. + +"But, I--I think you must be mistaken--again," faltered the girl, +growing rosy. + +"I ain't. I've always suspicioned it, an' now I know it." + +"But, he--he's acted as if he didn't care for me at all--as if he +hated me." + +"That's because he cared so much." + +"Nonsense, Susan!" + +"'T ain't nonsense. It's sense. As I told you, I've always suspicioned +it, an' last Saturday, when I heard him talk, I knew. He as good as +owned it up, anyhow." + +"But why didn't he--he tell me?" stammered the girl, growing still +more rosy. + +"Because he was blind." + +"As if I'd minded----" She stopped abruptly and turned away her face. + +Susan drew a resolute breath and squared her shoulders. + +"Then why don't you do somethin'?" she demanded. + +"Do something?" + +"Yes, to--to show him that you don't mind." + +"Oh, Susan, I--I couldn't do--that." + +"All right. Settle back, then, an' do nothin'; an' he'll settle back +an' do nothin', an' there'll be a pretty pair of you, eatin' your +hearts out with love for each other, an' passin' each other by with +converted faces an' highbrow chins; an' all because you're afraid of +offendin' Mis' Grundy, who don't care no more about you than two +sticks. But I s'pose you'd both rather be miserable than brace up an' +defy the properties an' live long an' be happy ever after." + +"But if I could be sure he--cared," spoke the girl, in a faint little +voice. + +"You would have been, if you'd seen him Saturday, as I did." + +"And if----" + +"If--if--if!" interrupted Susan impatiently. "An' there that poor +blind boy sets an' thinks an' thinks an' thinks, an' longs for some +one that loves him to smooth his pillow an' rumple his hair, an'----" + +"Susan, I'm going to do it. I'M GOING TO DO IT!" vowed the girl, +springing to her feet, her eyes like stars, her cheeks like twin +roses. + +"Do what?" demanded Susan. + +"I don't know. But, I'm going to do SOMETHING. Anyhow, whatever I do I +know I'm going to--to defy the 'properties,'" she babbled deliriously, +as she hurried from the room, looking very much as if she were trying +to hide from herself. + +Four days later, Keith, in his favorite chair, sat on the south +piazza. It was an April day, but it was like June, and the window +behind him was wide open into the living-room. He did not hear Dorothy +Parkman's light step up the walk. He did not know that she had paused +at sight of him sitting there, and had put her hand to her throat, and +then that she had almost run, light-footed, into the house, again very +much as if she were trying to run away from herself. But he did hear +her voice two minutes later, speaking just inside the window. + +At the first sentence he tried to rise, then with a despairing gesture +as if realizing that flight would be worse than to remain where he +was, he sat back in his chair. And this is what he heard Dorothy +Parkman say: + +"No, no, Mr. Burton, please--I--I can't marry you. You'll have to +understand. No--don't speak, don't say anything, please. There's +nothing you could say that--that would make a bit of difference. It's +just that I--I don't love you and I do--love somebody else--Keith, +your son--yes, you have guessed it. Oh, yes, I know we don't seem to +be much to each other, now. But--but whether we ever are, or not, +there can't ever be--any one else. And I think--he cares. It's just +that--that his pride won't let him speak. As if his dear eyes didn't +make me love him-- + +"But I mustn't say all this--to you. It's just that--that I wanted you +to surely--understand. And--and I must go, now. I--must--go!" + +And she went. She went hurriedly, a little noisily. She shut one door, +and another; then, out on the piazza, she came face to face with Keith +Burton. + +"Dorothy, oh, Dorothy--I heard!" + +And then it was well, indeed, that the Japanese screen on the front +piazza was down, for Keith stood with his arms outstretched, and +Dorothy, with an ineffably contented little indrawn breath, walked +straight into them. And with that light on his face, she would have +walked into them had he been standing in the middle of the sidewalk +outside. + +[Illustration: IT WAS WELL THAT THE JAPANESE SCREEN ON THE FRONT +PIAZZA WAS DOWN] + +To Dorothy at that moment nobody in all the world counted for a +feather's weight except the man who was holding her close, with his +lips to hers. + +Later, a little later, when they sat side by side on the piazza +settee, and when coherence and logic had become attributes to their +conversation, Keith sighed, with a little catch in his voice: + +"The only thing I regret about this--all this--the only thing that +makes me feel cheap and mean, is that I've won where dad lost out. +Poor old dad!" + +There was the briefest of pauses, then a small, subdued voice said: + +"I--I suspect, Keith, confession is good for the soul." + +"Well?" he demanded in evident mystification. + +"Anyhow, I--I'll have to do it. Your father wasn't there at all." + +"But I heard you speaking to him, my dear." + +She shook her head, and stole a look into his face, then caught her +breath with a little choking sob of heartache because he could not see +the love she knew was in her eyes. But the heartache only nerved her +to say the words that almost refused to come. "He--he wasn't there," +she repeated, fencing for time. + +"But who was there? I heard you call him by name, 'Mr. Burton,' +clearly, distinctly. I know I did." + +"But--but he wasn't there. Nobody was there. I--I was just talking to +myself." + +"You mean--practicing what you were going to say?" questioned Keith +doubtfully. "And that--that he doesn't know yet that you are going to +refuse him?" + +"N-no--er--well, yes. That is, I mean, it's true. He--he doesn't know +I am going to refuse him." There was a hint of smothered laughter in +the girl's voice. + +"Dorothy!" The arm about her waist perceptibly loosened and almost +fell away. "Why, I don't feel now that--that you half belong to me, +yet. And--and think of poor dad!" + +The girl caught her breath and stole another look into his face. + +"But, Keith, you--you don't understand. He--he hasn't proposed to me +yet. That is, I mean," she amended hastily, "he--he isn't going to +propose to me--ever." + +"But he was. He--cares. And now he'll have to know about--us." + +"But he wasn't--he doesn't. You don't understand, Keith. He--he never +thought of--of proposing to me. I know he didn't." + +"Then why--what--Dorothy, what do you mean by all this?" + +"Why, it's just that--that is--I--oh, Keith, Keith, why will you make +me tell you?" she cried between hysterical little laughs and sobs. +"And yet--I'd have to tell you, of course. I--I knew you were there on +the porch, and--and I knew you'd hear--what I said. And so, to make +you understand--oh, Keith, it was awful, but I--I pretended that----" + +"You--darling!" breathed an impassioned voice in her ear. "Oh, how I +love you, love you--for that!" + +"Oh, but, Keith, it really was awful of me," she cried, blushing and +laughing, as she emerged from his embrace. "Susan told me to defy the +'properties' and--and I did it." + +"Susan!" + +She nodded. + +"That's how I knew--for sure--that you cared." + +"And so I owe it all--even my--er--proposal of marriage, to Susan," he +bantered mischievously. + +"Keith, I did NOT--er--it was not a proposal of marriage." + +"No? But you're going to marry me, aren't you?" + +Her chin came up. + +"I--I shall wait till I'm asked," she retorted with dignity. + +"Hm-m; well, I reckon it's safe to say you'll be asked. And so I owe +it all to Susan. Well, it isn't the first good thing I've owed to +her--bless her heart! And she's equal to 'most anything. But I'll wager, +in this case, that even Susan had some stunt to perform. How did she +do it?" + +"She told me that you--you thought your father and I cared for each +other, and that--that you cared for me; but that you were very brave +and were going to go away, and--leave us to our happiness. Then, when +she found there was nothing to the other part of it, and that I--I +cared for you, she--well, I don't know how she did it, but she +said--well, I did it. That's all." + +Keith chuckled. + +"Exactly! You couldn't have described it better. We've always done +what Susan wanted us to, and we never could tell why. We--we just did +it. That's all. And, oh, I'm so glad you did this, little girl, so +glad!" + +"Yes, but----" She drew away from him a little, and her voice became +severely accusing. "Keith Burton, you--you should have done it +yourself, and you know it." + +He shook his head. + +"I couldn't." A swift shadow fell like a cloud over his countenance. +"Darling, even now--Dorothy, do you fully realize what you are doing? +All your life to be tied----" + +"Hush!" Her finger was on his lips only to be kissed till she took it +away. "I won't let you talk like that a minute--not a single minute! +But, Keith, there is something I want you to say." Her voice was half +pleading, half whimsical. Her eyes, through her tears, were studying +his face, turned partly away from her. "Confession is good for the +soul." + +"Well? Anything more?" He smiled faintly. + +"Yes; only this time it's you. YOU'VE got to do it." + +"I?" + +"Yes." Her voice rang with firm decision. "Keith, I want to know +why--why all this time you've acted so--so that I had to find out +through Susan that you--cared. And I want to know--when you stopped +hating me. And----" + +"Dorothy--I never, never hated you!" cut in the man passionately. + +"But you acted as if you did. Why, you--you wouldn't let me come near +you, and you were so--angry with me." + +"Yes, I--know." The man fell back in his chair and was silent. + +There was a long minute of waiting. + +"Keith." + +"Yes, dear." + +"I confessed mine, and yours can't be any harder than--mine was." + +Still he hesitated; then, with a long breath he began to speak. + +"Dorothy, it--it's just that I've had so much to fight. And--it hasn't +been easy. But, listen, dear. I think I've loved you from away back in +the days when you wore your hair in two thick pigtails down your back. +You know I was only fourteen when--when the shadows began to come. One +day, away back then, I saw you shudder once at--blindness. We were +talking about old Joe Harrington. And I never forgot it." + +"But it was only because I pitied him." + +"Yes; but I thought then that it was more aversion. You said you +couldn't bear to look at them. And you see I feared, even then, that I +was going to be like old Joe some time." + +"Oh, Keith!" + +"Well, it came. I was like old Joe--blind. And I knew that I was the +object of curiosity and pity, and, I believed, aversion, wherever I +went. And, oh, I so hated it! I didn't want to be stared at, and +pointed out, and pitied. I didn't want to be different. And above all +I didn't want to know that you were turning away from me in aversion +and disgust." + +"Oh, Keith, Keith, as if I ever could!" faltered the girl. + +"I thought you could--and would. I used to picture you all in the +dark, as I used to see you with your bright eyes and pretty hair, and +I could see the look on your face as you turned away shuddering. +That's when I determined at all costs to keep out of your sight--until +I should be well again. I was going to be well, of course, then, you +know. Well, in time I went West, and on the way I met--Miss Stewart." + +"Yes." Dorothy's voice was not quite steady. + +"I liked Miss Stewart. She was wonderfully good to me. At first--at +the very first--she gave me quite a start. Her voice sounded so much +like--Dorothy Parkman's. But very soon I forgot that, and just gave +myself up to the enjoyment of her companionship. I wasn't afraid with +her--that her eyes were turned away in aversion and disgust. Some way, +I just knew that she wasn't like--Dorothy Parkman. You see, I hadn't +forgotten Dorothy. Some day I was going back to her--seeing. + +"Well, you know what happened--the operations, the specialists, the +years of waiting, the trip to London, then home, hopelessly blind. It +was not easy then, Dorothy, but--I tried to be a man. Most of all I +felt for--dad. He'd had so many hopes--But, never mind; and, anyhow, +what Susan said the other day helped--But this has nothing to do with +you, dear. To go on: I gave you up then definitely. I know that all +the while I'd been having you back in my mind, young as I was--that +some day I was going to be big and strong and rich and have my eyes; +and that then I was going to ask you to marry me. But when I got home, +hopelessly blind, that ended it. I didn't believe you would have me, +anyway; but even if you would, I wasn't going to give you the chance +of always having to turn away in aversion and disgust from the sight +of your husband." + +"Oh, Keith, how could you!" + +"I couldn't. But you see how I felt. Then, one day I heard Miss +Stewart's voice in the hall, and, oh, how good it sounded to me! I +think I must have caught her hand very much as the drowning man grasps +at the straw. SHE would never turn away from me! With her I felt safe, +happy, and at peace. I don't think I exactly understood my state of +mind myself. I didn't think I was in love with her, yet with her I was +happy, and I was never afraid. + +"But I didn't have a chance long to question. Almost at once came the +day when Mazie Sanborn ran up the steps and spoke--to you. And I knew. +My whole world seemed tumbling to destruction in one blinding crash. +You can never know, dear, how utterly dismayed and angry and helpless +I felt. All that I knew was that for months and months I had let +Dorothy Parkman read to me, play with me, and talk to me--that I had +been eager to take all the time she would give me; when all the while +she had been doing it out of pity, of course, and I could see just how +she must have been shuddering and turning away her eyes all the long, +long weeks she had been with me, at different times. But even more +than that, if possible, was the chagrin and dismay with which I +realized that all the while I had been cheated and deceived and made a +fool of, because I was blind, and could not see. I had been tricked +into putting myself in such a position." + +"No, no! You didn't understand," protested the girl. + +"Of course, I didn't understand, dear. Nobody who is blinded with rage +and hurt pride can understand--anything, rightly." + +"But you wouldn't let me explain afterwards." + +"No, I didn't want you to explain. I was too sore, too deeply hurt, +too--well, I couldn't. That's all. Besides, I didn't want you to +know--how much I was caring about it all. So, a little later, when I +did see you, I tried to toss it all off lightly, as of no consequence +whatever." + +"Well, you--succeeded," commented Dorothy dryly. + +"I had to, you see. I had found out then how much I really did care. I +knew then that somehow you and Miss Stewart were hopelessly mixed up +in my heart, and that I loved you, and that the world without you was +going to be one big desert of loneliness and longing. You see, it had +not been so hard to give you up in imagination; but when it came to +the real thing----" + +"But, Keith, why--why did you insist that you must?" + +"Do you think I'd ask you or anybody to tie yourself to a helpless +creature who would probably finally end up on a street corner with a +tin cup for pennies? Besides, in your case, I had not forgotten the +shudders and the averted eyes. I still was so sure---- + +"Then John McGuire came home blind; and after a while I found I could +help him. And, Dorothy, then is when I learned that--that perhaps YOU +were as happy in doing things for me as I had been in doing them for +John McGuire. I sort of forgot the shudders and the averted eyes then. +Besides, along about that time we had got back to almost our old +friendliness--the friendliness and companionship of Miss Stewart and +me. Then the money came and I knew that at least I never should have +to ask you to subsist on what the tin cup of pennies could bring! And +I had almost begun to--to actually plan, when all of a sudden you +stopped coming, right off short." + +"But I--I went away," defended the girl, a little faintly. + +"Not at once. You were here in town a long time after that. I knew +because I used to hear about you. I was sure then that--that you had +seen I was caring for you, and so you stayed away. Besides, it came +back to me again--my old fear of your pity and aversion, of your eyes +turned away. You see, always, dear, that's been a sort of obsession +with me, I guess. I hate to feel that any one is looking at me--watching +me. To me it seems like spying on me because I--I can't look +back. Yes, I know it's all very foolish and very silly; but we are all +foolish and silly over something. It's because of that feeling that I--I +so hate to enter a room and know that some one is there who won't +speak--who tries to cheat me into thinking I am alone. I--I can't bear +it, Dorothy. Just because I can't see them--" + +"I know, I know," nodded the girl. "Well, in December you went away. +Oh, I knew when you went. I knew a lot of things that YOU didn't know +I knew. But I was trying all those days to put you quite out of my +mind, and I busied myself with John McGuire and told myself that I was +satisfied with my work; that I had put you entirely out of my life. + +"Then you came back in February, and I knew I hadn't. I knew I loved +you more than ever. Just at first, the very first, I thought you had +come back to me. Then I saw--that it was dad. After that I tried--oh, +you don't know how hard I tried--to kill that wicked love in my heart. +Why, darling, nothing would have hired me to let you see it then. Let +dad know that his loving you hurt me? Fail dad there, as I had failed +him everywhere else? I guess not! This was something I COULD do. I +could let him have you, and never, never let him know. So I buried +myself in work and tried to--forget. + +"Then to-day you came. At the first sound of your voice in there, when +I realized what you were saying (to dad, I supposed), I started up and +would have gone. Then I was afraid you would see me pass the window, +and that it would be worse if I went than if I stayed. Besides, right +away I heard words that made me so weak with joy and amazement that my +knees bent under me and I had to sit down. And then--but you know the +rest, dear." + +"Yes, I know the rest; and I'll tell you, some time, why I--I stopped +coming last fall." + +"All right; but even that doesn't matter to me now; for now, in spite +of my blind eyes, the way looks all rosy ahead. Why, dear, it's like +the dawn--the dawn of a new day. And I used to so love the dawn! You +don't know, but years ago, with dad, I'd go camping in the woods, and +sometimes we'd stay all night on the mountain. I loved that, for in +the morning we'd watch the sun come up and flood the world with light. +And it seemed so wonderful, after the dark! And it's like that with me +to-day, dear. It's my dawn--the dawn of a new day. And it's so +wonderful--after the dark!" + +"Oh, Keith, I'm so glad! And, listen, dear. It's not only dawn for +you, but for all those blind boys down there that you are helping. You +have opened their eyes to the dawn of THEIR new day. Don't you see?" + +Keith drew in his breath with a little catch. + +"Have I? Do you think I have? Oh, I should like to think--that. I +don't know, of course, about them. But I do know about myself. And I +know it's the most wonderful dawn ever was for me. And I know that +with your little hand in mine I'll walk fearlessly straight on, with +my chin up. And now that I know dad doesn't care, and that he isn't +going to be unhappy about my loving you and your loving me, I haven't +even that to fear." + +"And, oh, Keith, think, think what it would have been if--if I hadn't +defied the 'properties,'" she faltered mistily. + +"Dear old Susan--bless her heart! And that isn't all I owe her. +Something she said the other day made me hope that maybe I hadn't even +quite failed--dad. And I so wanted to make good--for dad!" + +"And you've done it, Keith." + +"But maybe he--he doesn't think so." + +"But he does. He told me." + +"He TOLD you!" + +"Yes--last night. He said that once he had great plans for you, great +ambitions, but that he never dreamed he could be as proud of you as he +is right now--what you had done for yourself, and what you were doing +for those boys down there." + +"Did dad say that?" + +"Yes." + +"And to think of my having that, and you, too!" breathed the man, his +arm tightening about her. + + + + +THE END + + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Dawn, by Eleanor H. 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Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: Dawn + +Author: Eleanor H. Porter + +Release Date: June, 2004 [EBook #5874] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on September 15, 2002] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DAWN *** + + + + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Charles Franks +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team + + + + + +[Illustration: "I MUST GO, NOW, I--MUST--GO!"] + +DAWN + +BY + +ELEANOR H. PORTER + +With Illustrations by Lucius Wolcott Hitchcock + +BOSTON AND NEW YORK + +1919 + + + + +To My Friend + +MRS. JAMES D. PARKER + + + + +CONTENTS + +I. THE GREAT TERROR + +II. DAD + +III. FOR JERRY AND NED + +IV. SCHOOL + +V. WAITING + +VI. LIGHTS OUT + +VII. SUSAN TO THE RESCUE + +VIII. AUNT NETTIE MEETS HER MATCH + +IX. SUSAN SPEAKS HER MIND + +X. AND NETTIE COLEBROOK SPEAKS HERS + +XI. NOT PATS BUT SCRATCHES + +XII. CALLERS FOR "KEITHIE" + +XIII. FREE VERSE--A LA SUSAN + +XIV. A SURPRISE ALL AROUND + +XV. AGAIN SUSAN TAKES A HAND + +XVI. THE WORRY OF IT + +XVII. DANIEL BURTON TAKES THE PLUNGE + +XVIII. "MISS STEWART" + +XIX. A MATTER OF LETTERS + +XX. WITH CHIN UP + +XXI. THE LION + +XXII. HOW COULD YOU, MAZIE? + +XXIII. JOHN MCGUIRE + +XXIV. AS SUSAN SAW IT + +XXV. KEITH TO THE RESCUE + +XXVI. MAZIE AGAIN + +XXVII. FOR THE SAKE OF JOHN + +XXVIII. THE WAY + +XXIX. DOROTHY TRIES HER HAND + +XXX. DANIEL BURTON'S "JOB" + +XXXI. WHAT SUSAN DID NOT SEE + +XXXII. THE KEY + +XXXIII. AND ALL ON ACCOUNT OF SUSAN + + + + +ILLUSTRATIONS + +"I must go, now. I--must--go!" + +Susan Betts talking with Mrs. McGuire over the back-yard fence + +"Want you? I always want you!" + +"You've helped more--than you'll ever know" + +He gave her almost no chance to say anything herself + +Keith's arm shot out and his hand fell, covering hers + +It was well that the Japanese screen on the front piazza was down + + + + +CHAPTER I + +THE GREAT TERROR + + +It was on his fourteenth birthday that Keith Burton discovered the +Great Terror, though he did not know it by that name until some days +afterward. He knew only, to his surprise and distress, that the +"Treasure Island," given to him by his father for a birthday present, +was printed in type so blurred and poor that he could scarcely read +it. + +He said nothing, of course. In fact he shut the book very hastily, +with a quick, sidewise look, lest his father should see and notice the +imperfection of his gift. + +Poor father! He would feel so bad after he had taken all that pains +and spent all that money--and for something not absolutely necessary, +too! And then to get cheated like that. For, of course, he had been +cheated--such horrid print that nobody could read. + +But it was only a day or two later that Keith found some more horrid +print. This time it was in his father's weekly journal that came every +Saturday morning. He found it again that night in a magazine, and yet +again the next day in the Sunday newspaper. + +Then, before he had evolved a satisfactory explanation in his own mind +of this phenomenon, he heard Susan Betts talking with Mrs. McGuire +over the back-yard fence. + +Susan Betts began the conversation. But that was nothing strange: +Susan Betts always began the conversation. + +"Have you heard about poor old Harrington?" she demanded in what Keith +called her "excitingest" voice. Then, as was always the case when she +spoke in that voice, she plunged on without waiting for a reply, as if +fearful lest her bit of news fall from the other pair of lips first. +"Well, he's blind--stone blind. He couldn't see a dollar bill--not if +you shook it right before his eyes." + +"Sho! you don't say!" Mrs. McGuire dropped the wet sheet back into the +basket and came to the fence on her side concernedly. "Now, ain't that +too bad?" + +"Yes, ain't it? An' he so kind, an' now so blind! It jest makes me +sick." Susan whipped open the twisted folds of a wet towel. Susan +seldom stopped her work to talk. "But I saw it comin' long ago. An' he +did, too, poor man!" + +Mrs. McGuire lifted a bony hand to her face and tucked a flying wisp +of hair behind her right ear. + +"Then if he saw it comin', why couldn't he do somethin' to stop it?" +she demanded. + +[Illustration: SUSAN BETTS TALKING WITH MRS. MCGUIRE OVER THE BACKYARD +FENCE] + +"I don't know. But he couldn't. Dr. Chandler said he couldn't. An' +they had a man up from Boston--one of them eye socialists what doesn't +doctor anythin' but eyes--an' he said he couldn't." + +Keith, on his knees before the beet-bed adjoining the clothes-yard, +sat back on his heels and eyed the two women with frowning interest. + +He knew old Mr. Harrington. So did all the boys. Never was there a +kite or a gun or a jack-knife so far gone that Uncle Joe Harrington +could not "fix it" somehow. And he was always so jolly about it, and +so glad to do it. But it took eyes to do such things, and if now he +was going to be blind-- + +"An' you say it's been comin' on gradual?" questioned Mrs. McGuire. +"Why, I hadn't heard-" + +"No, there hain't no one heard," interrupted Susan. "He didn't say +nothin' ter nobody, hardly, only me, I guess, an' I suspicioned it, or +he wouldn't 'a' said it to me, probably. Ye see, I found out he wa'n't +readin' 'em--the papers Mr. Burton has me take up ter him every week. +An' he owned up, when I took him ter task for it, that he couldn't +read 'em. They was gettin' all blurred." + +"Blurred?" It was a startled little cry from the boy down by the beet- +bed; but neither Susan nor Mrs. McGuire heard--perhaps because at +almost the same moment Mrs. McGuire had excitedly asked the same +question. + +"Blurred?" she cried. + +"Yes; all run tergether like--the printin', ye know----so he couldn't +tell one letter from t'other. 'T wa'n't only a little at first. Why, +he thought 't was jest somethin' the matter with the printin' itself; +an'--" + +"And WASN'T it the printing at ALL?" + +The boy was on his feet now. His face was a little white and strained- +looking, as he asked the question. + +"Why, no, dearie. Didn't you hear Susan tell Mis' McGuire jest now? 'T +was his EYES, an' he didn't know it. He was gettin' blind, an' that +was jest the beginnin'." + +Susan's capable hands picked up another wet towel and snapped it open +by way of emphasis. + +"The b-beginning?" stammered the boy. "But--but ALL beginnings don't-- +don't end like that, do they?" + +Susan Betts laughed indulgently and jammed the clothespin a little +deeper on to the towel. + +"Bless the child! Won't ye hear that, now?" she laughed with a shrug. +"An' how should I know? I guess if Susan Betts could tell the end of +all the beginnin's as soon as they're begun, she wouldn't be hangin' +out your daddy's washin', my boy. She'd be sittin' on a red velvet +sofa with a gold cupola over her head a-chargin' five dollars apiece +for tellin' yer fortune. Yes, sir, she would!" + +"But--but about Uncle Joe," persisted the boy. "Can't he really see-- +at all, Susan?" + +"There, there, child, don't think anything more about it. Indeed, +forsooth, I'm tellin' the truth, but I s'pose I hadn't oughter told it +before you. Still, you'd 'a' found it out quick enough--an' you with +your tops an' balls always runnin' up there. An' that's what the poor +soul seemed to feel the worst about," she went on, addressing Mrs. +McGuire, who was still leaning on the division fence. + +"'If only I could see enough ter help the boys!' he moaned over an' +over again. It made me feel awful bad. I was that upset I jest +couldn't sleep that night, an' I had ter get up an' write. But it made +a real pretty poem. My fuse always works better in the night, anyhow. +'The wail of the toys'--that's what I called it--had the toys tell the +story, ye know, all the kites an' jack-knives an' balls an' bats that +he's fixed for the boys all these years, an' how bad they felt because +he couldn't do it any more. Like this, ye know: + + 'Oh, woe is me, said the baseball bat, + Oh, woe is me, said the kite.' + +'T was real pretty, if I do say it, an' touchy, too." + +"For mercy's sake, Susan Betts, if you ain't the greatest!" ejaculated +Mrs. McGuire, with disapproving admiration. "If you was dyin' I +believe you'd stop to write a poem for yer gravestone!" + +Susan Betts chuckled wickedly, but her voice was gravity itself. + +"Oh, I wouldn't have ter do that, Mis' McGuire. I've got that done +already." + +"Susan Betts, you haven't!" gasped the scandalized woman on the other +side of the fence. + +"Haven't I? Listen," challenged Susan Betts, striking an attitude. Her +face was abnormally grave, though her eyes were merry. + + "Here lieth a woman whose name was Betts, + An' I s'pose she'll deserve whatever she gets; + But if she hadn't been Betts she might 'a' been Better, + She might even been Best if her name would 'a' let her." + +"Susan!" gasped Mrs. McGuire once more; but Susan only chuckled again +wickedly, and fell to work on her basket of clothes in good earnest. + +A moment later she was holding up with stern disapproval two socks +with gaping heels. + +"Keith Burton, here's them scandalous socks again! Now, do you go tell +your father that I won't touch 'em. I won't mend 'em another once. He +must get you a new pair--two new pairs, right away. Do you hear?" + +But Keith did not hear. Keith was not there to hear. Still with that +strained, white look on his face he had hurried out of the yard and +through the gate. + +Mrs. McGuire, however, did hear. + +"My stars, Susan Betts, it's lucky your bark is worse than your bite!" +she exclaimed. "Mend 'em, indeed! They won't be dry before you've got +your darnin' egg in 'em." + +Susan laughed ruefully. Then she sighed:--at arms' length she was +holding up another pair of yawning socks. + +"I know it. And look at them, too," she snapped, in growing wrath. +"But what's a body goin' to do? The boy'd go half-naked before his +father would sense it, with his nose in that paint-box. Much as ever +as he's got sense enough ter put on his own clothes--and he WOULDN'T +know WHEN ter put on CLEAN ones, if I didn't spread 'em out for him!" + +"I know it. Too bad, too bad," murmured Mrs. McGuire, with a virtuous +shake of her head. "An' he with his fine bringin'-up, an' now to be so +shiftless an' good-for-nothin', an'--" + +But Susan Betts was interrupting, her eyes flashing. + +"If you please, I'll thank you to say no more like that about my +master," she said with dignity. "He's neither shiftless, nor good-for- +nothin'. His character is unbleachable! He's an artist an' a scholar +an' a gentleman, an' a very superlative man. It's because he knows so +much that--that he jest hain't got room for common things like clothes +an' holes in socks." + +"Stuff an' nonsense!" retorted Mrs. McGuire nettled in her turn. "I +guess I've known Dan'l Burton as long as you have; an' as for his +bein' your master--he can't call his soul his own when you're around, +an' you know it." + +But Susan, with a disdainful sniff, picked up her now empty clothes- +basket and marched into the house. + +Down the road Keith had reached the turn and was climbing the hill +that led to old Mr. Harrington's shabby cottage. + +The boy's eyes were fixed straight ahead. A squirrel whisked his tail +alluringly from the bushes at the left, and a robin twittered from a +tree branch on the right. But the boy neither saw nor heard--and when +before had Keith Burton failed to respond to a furred or feathered +challenge like that? + +To-day there was an air of dogged determination about even the way he +set one foot before the other. He had the air of one who sees his goal +ahead and cannot reach it soon enough. Yet when Keith arrived at the +sagging, open gate before the Harrington cottage, he stopped short as +if the gate were closed; and his next steps were slow and hesitant. +Walking on the grass at the edge of the path he made no sound as he +approached the stoop, on which sat an old man. + +At the steps, as at the gate, Keith stopped and waited, his gaze on +the motionless figure in the rocking-chair. The old man sat with hands +folded on his cane-top, his eyes apparently looking straight ahead. + +Slowly the boy lifted his right arm and waved it soundlessly. He +lifted his left--but there was no waving flourish. Instead it fell +impotently almost before it was lifted. On the stoop the old man still +sat motionless, his eyes still gazing straight ahead. + +Again the boy hesitated; then, with an elaborately careless air, he +shuffled his feet on the gravel walk and called cheerfully: + +"Hullo, Uncle Joe." + +"Hullo! Oh, hullo! It's Keith Burton, ain't it?" + +The old head turned with the vague indecision of the newly blind, and +a trembling hand thrust itself aimlessly forward. "It IS Keith--ain't +it?" + +"Oh, yes, sir, I'm Keith." + +The boy, with a quick look about him, awkwardly shook the fluttering +fingers--Keith was not in the habit of shaking hands with people, +least of all with Uncle Joe Harrington. He sat down then on the step +at the old man's feet. + +"What did ye bring ter-day, my boy?" asked the man eagerly; then with +a quick change of manner, he sighed, "but I'm afraid I can't fix it, +anyhow." + +"Oh, no, sir, you don't have to. I didn't bring anything to be mended +to-day." Unconsciously Keith had raised his voice. He was speaking +loudly, and very politely. + +The old man fell back in his chair. He looked relieved, yet +disappointed. + +"Oh, well, that's all right, then. I'm glad. That is, of course, if I +could have fixed it for you--His sentence remained unfinished. A +profound gloom settled over his countenance. + +"But I didn't bring anything for you to fix," reiterated the boy, in a +yet louder tone. + +"There, there, my boy, you don't have to shout." The old man shifted +uneasily hi his seat. "I ain't deaf. I'm only--I suppose you know, +Keith, what's come to me in my old age." + +"Yes, sir, I--I do." The boy hitched a little nearer to the two ill- +shod feet on the floor near him. "And--and I wanted to ask you. Yours +hurt a lot, didn't they?--I mean, your eyes; they--they ached, didn't +they, before they--they got--blind?" He spoke eagerly, almost +hopefully. + +The old man shook his head. + +"No, not much. I s'pose I ought to be thankful I was spared that." + +The boy wet his dry lips and swallowed. + +"But, Uncle Joe, 'most always, I guess, when--when folks are going to +be blind, they--they DO ache, don't they?" + +Again the old man stirred restlessly. + +"I don't know. I only know about--myself." + +"But--well, anyhow, it never comes till you're old--real old, does +it?" Keith's voice vibrated with confidence this time. + +"Old? I ain't so very old. I'm only seventy-five," bridled Harrington +resentfully. "Besides anyhow, the doctor said age didn't have nothin' +ter do with this kind of blindness. It comes ter young folks, real +young folks, sometimes." + +"Oh-h!" The boy wet his lips and swallowed again a bit convulsively. +With eyes fearful and questioning he searched the old man's face. +Twice he opened his mouth as if to speak; but each time he closed it +again with the words left unsaid. Then, with a breathless rush, very +much like desperation, he burst out: + +"But it's always an awful long time comin', isn't it? Blindness is. +It's years and years before it really gets here, isn't it?" + +"Hm-m; well, I can't say. I can only speak for myself, Keith." + +"Yes, sir, I know, sir; and that's what I wanted to ask--about you," +plunged on Keith feverishly. "When did you notice it first, and what +was it?" + +The old man drew a long sigh. + +"Why, I don't know as I can tell, exactly. 'T was quite a spell comin' +on--I know that; and't wasn't much of anything at first. 'T was just +that I couldn't see ter read clear an' distinct. It was all sort of +blurred." + +"Kind of run together?" Just above his breath Keith asked the +question. + +"Yes, that's it exactly. An' I thought somethin' ailed my glasses, an' +so I got some new ones. An' I thought at first maybe it helped. But it +didn't. Then it got so that't wa'n't only the printin' ter books an' +papers that was blurred, but ev'rything a little ways off was in a +fog, like, an' I couldn't see anything real clear an' distinct." + +"Oh, but things--other things--don't look a mite foggy to me," cried +the boy. + +"'Course they don't! Why should they? They didn't to me--once," +retorted the man impatiently. "But now--" Again he left a sentence +unfinished. + +"But how soon did--did you get--all blind, after that?" stammered the +boy, breaking the long, uncomfortable silence that had followed the +old man's unfinished sentence. + +"Oh, five or six months--maybe more. I don't know exactly. I know it +came, that's all. I guess if 't was you it wouldn't make no difference +HOW it came, if it came, boy." "N-no, of course not," chattered Keith, +springing suddenly to his feet. "But I guess it isn't coming to me--of +course't isn't coming to me! Well, good-bye, Uncle Joe, I got to go +now. Good-bye!" + +He spoke fearlessly, blithely, and his chin was at a confident tilt. +He even whistled as he walked down the hill. But in his heart--in his +heart Keith knew that beside him that very minute stalked that +shadowy, intangible creature that had dogged his footsteps ever since +his fourteenth birthday-gift from his father; and he knew it now by +name--The Great Terror. + + + + +CHAPTER II + +DAD + + +Keith's chin was still high and his gaze still straight ahead when he +reached the foot of Harrington Hill. Perhaps that explained why he did +not see the two young misses on the fence by the side of the road +until a derisively gleeful shout called his attention to their +presence. + +"Well, Keith Burton, I should like to know if you're blind!" +challenged a merry voice. + +The boy turned with a start so violent that the girls giggled again +gleefully. "Dear, dear, did we scare him? We're so sorry!" + +The boy flushed painfully. Keith did not like girls--that is, he SAID +he did not like them. They made him conscious of his hands and feet, +and stiffened his tongue so that it would not obey his will. The +prettier the girls were, the more acute was his discomfiture. +Particularly, therefore, did he dislike these two girls--they were the +prettiest of the lot. They were Mazie Sanborn and her friend Dorothy +Parkman. + +Mazie was the daughter of the town's richest manufacturer, and Dorothy +was her cousin from Chicago, who made such long visits to her Eastern +relatives that it seemed sometimes almost as if she were as much of a +Hinsdale girl as was Mazie herself. + +To-day Mazie's blue eyes and Dorothy's brown ones were full of +mischief. + +"Well, why don't you say something? Why don't you apologize?" demanded +Mazie. + +'"Pol--pologize? What for?" In his embarrassed misery Keith resorted +to bravado in voice and manner. + +"Why, for passing us by in that impertinent fashion," returned Mazie +loftily. "Do you think that is the way ladies should be treated?" +(Mazie was thirteen and Dorothy fourteen.) "The idea!" + +For a minute Keith stared helplessly, shifting from one foot to the +other. Then, with an inarticulate grunt, he turned away. + +But Mazie was not to be so easily thwarted. With a mere flit of her +hand she tossed aside a score of years, and became instantly nothing +more than a wheedling little girl coaxing a playmate. + +"Aw, Keithie, don't get mad! I was only fooling. Say, tell me, HAVE +you been up to Uncle Joe Harrington's?" + +Because Mazie had caught his arm and now held it tightly, the boy +perforce came to a stop. + +"Well, what if I have?" he resorted to bravado again. + +"And is he blind, honestly?" Mazie's voice became hushed and +awestruck. + +"Uh-huh." The boy nodded his head with elaborate unconcern, but he +shifted his feet uneasily. + +"And he can't see a thing--not a thing?" breathed Mazie. + +"'Course he can't, if he's blind!" Keith showed irritation now, and +pulled not too gently at the arm still held in Mazie's firm little +fingers. + +"Blind! Ugghh!" interposed Miss Dorothy, shuddering visibly. "Oh, how +can you bear to look at him, Keith Burton? I couldn't!" + +A sudden wave of red surged over the boy's face. The next instant it +had receded, leaving only a white, strained terror. + +"Well, he ain't to blame for it, if he is blind, is he?" chattered the +boy, a bit incoherently. "If you're blind you're blind, and you can't +help yourself." And with a jerk he freed himself from Mazie's grasp +and hurried down the road toward home. + +But when he reached the bend of the road he turned and looked back. +The two girls had returned to their perch on the fence, and were +deeply absorbed in something one of them held in her hand. + +"And she said she couldn't bear--to look at 'em--if they were blind," +he whispered. Then, wheeling about, he ran down the road as fast as he +could. Nor did he stop till he had entered his own gate. + +"Well, Keith Burton, I should like to know where you've been," cried +the irate voice of Susan Betts from the doorway. + +"Oh, just walking. Why?" + +"Because I've been huntin' and huntin' for you. + + But, oh, dear me, + You're worse'n a flea, + So what's the use of talkin'? + You always say, + As you did to-day, + I've just been out a-walkin'!" + +"But what did you want me for?" + +"I didn't want you. Your pa wanted you. But, then, for that matter, +he's always wantin' you. Any time, if you look at him real good an' +hard enough to get his attention, he'll stare a minute, an' then say: +'Where's Keith?' An' when he gets to the other shore, I suppose he'll +do it all the more." + +"Oh, no, he won't--not if it's talking poetry. Father never talks +poetry. What makes you talk it so much, Susan? Nobody else does." + +Susan laughed good-humoredly. + +"Lan' sakes, child, I don't know, only I jest can't help it. Why, +everything inside of me jest swings along to a regular tune--kind of +keeps time, like. It's always been so. Why, Keithie, boy, it's been my +joy--There, you see--jest like that! I didn't know that was comin'. It +jest--jest came. That's all. I can make a rhyme 'most any time. Oh, of +course, most generally, when I write real poems, I have to sit down +with a pencil an' paper, an' write 'em out. It's only the spontaneous +combustion kind that comes all in a minute, without predisposed +thinkin'. Now, run along to your pa, child. He wants you. He's been +frettin' the last hour for you, jest because he didn't know exactly +where you was. Goodness me! I only hope I'll never have to live with +him if anything happens to you." + +The boy had crossed the room; but with his hand on the door knob he +turned sharply. + +"W-what do you mean by that?" + +Susan Betts gave a despairing gesture. + +"Lan' sakes, child, how you do hold a body up! I meant what I said-- +that I didn't want the job of livin' with your pa if anything happened +to you. You know as well as I do that he thinks you're the very axle +for the earth to whirl 'round on. But, there, I don't know as I +wonder--jest you left, so!" + +The boy abandoned his position at the door, and came close to Susan +Betts's side. + +"That's what I've always wanted to know. Other boys have brothers and +sisters and--a mother. But I can't ever remember anybody only dad. +Wasn't there ever any one else?" + +Susan Betts drew a long sigh. + +"There were two brothers, but they died before you was born. Then +there was--your mother." + +"But I never--knew her?" + +"No, child. When they opened the door of Heaven to let you out she +slipped in, poor lamb. An' then you was all your father had left. So +of course he dotes on you. Goodness me, there ain't no end to the fine +things he's goin' ter have you be when you grow up." + +"Yes, I know." The boy caught his breath convulsively and turned away. +"I guess I'll go--to dad." + +At the end of the hall upstairs was the studio. Dad would probably be +there. Keith knew that. Dad was always there, when he wasn't sleeping +or eating, or out tramping through the woods. He would be sitting +before the easel now "puttering" over a picture, as Susan called it. +Susan said he was a very "insufficient, uncapacious" man--but that was +when she was angry or tried with him. She never let any one else say +such things about him. + +Still, dad WAS very different from other dads. Keith had to +acknowledge that--to himself. Other boys' dads had offices and stores +and shops and factories where they worked, or else they were doctors +or ministers; and there was always money to get things with--things +that boys needed; shoes and stockings and new clothes, and candy and +baseball bats and kites and jack-knives. + +Dad didn't have anything but a studio, and there never seemed to be +much money. What there was, was an "annual," Susan said, whatever that +was. Anyway, whatever it was, it was too small, and not nearly large +enough to cover expenses. Susan had an awful time to get enough to buy +their food with sometimes. She was always telling dad that she'd GOT +to have a little to buy eggs or butter or meat with. + +And there were her wages--dad was always behind on those. And when the +bills came in at the first of the month, it was always awful then: dad +worried and frowning and unhappy and apologetic and explaining; Susan +cross and half-crying. Strange men, not overpleasant-looking, ringing +the doorbell peremptorily. And never a place at all where a boy might +feel comfortable to stay. Dad was always talking then, especially, how +he was sure he was going to sell THIS picture. But he never sold it. +At least, Keith never knew him to. And after a while he would begin a +new picture, and be SURE he was going to sell THAT. + +But not only was dad different from other boys' dads, but the house +was different. First it was very old, and full of very old furniture +and dishes. Then blinds and windows and locks and doors were always +getting out of order; and they were apt to remain so, for there was +never any money to fix things with. There was also a mortgage on the +house. That is, Susan said there was; and by the way she said it, it +would seem to be something not at all attractive or desirable. Just +what a mortgage was, Keith did not exactly understand; but, for that +matter, quite probably Susan herself did not. Susan always liked to +use big words, and some of them she did not always know the meaning +of, dad said. + +To-day, in the hallway, Keith stood a hesitant minute before his +father's door. Then slowly he pushed it open. + +"Did you want me, dad?" he asked. + +The man at the easel sprang to his feet. He was a tall, slender man, +with finely cut features and a pointed, blond beard. Susan had once +described him as "an awfully nice man to take care of, but not worth a +cent when it comes to takin' care of you." Yet there was every +evidence of loving protection in the arm he threw around his boy just +now. + +"Want you? I always want you!" he cried affectionately. "Look! Do you +remember that moss we brought home yesterday? Well, I've got its twin +now." Triumphantly he pointed to the lower left-hand corner of the +picture on the easel, where was a carefully blended mass of greens and +browns. + +"Oh, yes, why, so't is." (Keith had long since learned to see in his +father's pictures what his father saw.) "Say, dad, I wish't you'd tell +me about--my little brothers. Won't you, please?" + +"And, Keith, look--do you recognize that little path? It's the one we +saw yesterday. I'm going to call this picture 'The Woodland Path'--and +I think it's going to be about the very best thing I ever did." + +Keith was not surprised that his question had been turned aside: +questions that his father did not like to answer were always turned +aside. Usually Keith submitted with what grace he could muster; but +to-day he was in a persistent mood that would not be denied. + +"Dad, WHY won't you tell me about my brothers? Please, what were their +names, and how old were they, and why did they die?" + +[Illustration: "Want you? I always want you!"] + +"God knows why they died--I don't!" The man's arm about the boy's +shoulder tightened convulsively. + +"But how old were they?" + +"Ned was seven and Jerry was four, and they were the light of my eyes, +and--But why do you make me tell you? Isn't it enough, Keith, that +they went, one after the other, not two days apart? And then the sun +went out and left the world gray and cold and cheerless, for the next +day--your mother went." + +"And how about me, dad?" + +The man did not seem to have heard. Still with his arm about the boy's +shoulder, he had dropped back into the seat before the easel. His eyes +now were somberly fixed out the window. + +"Wasn't I--anywhere, dad?" + +With a start the man turned. His arm tightened again. His eyes grew +moist and very tender. + +"Anywhere? You're everywhere now, my boy. I'm afraid, at the first, +the very first, I didn't like to see you very well, perhaps because +you were ALL there was left. Then, little by little, I found you were +looking at me with your mother's eyes, and touching me with the +fingers of Ned and Jerry. And now--why, boy, you're everything. You're +Ned and Jerry and your mother all in one, my boy, my boy!" + +Keith stirred restlessly. A horrible tightness came to his throat, yet +there was a big lump that must be swallowed. + +"Er--that--that Woodland Path picture is going to be great, dad, +great!" he said then, in a very loud, though slightly husky, voice. +"Come on, let's---" + +From the hall Susan's voice interrupted, chanting in a high-pitched +singsong: + + "Dinner's ready, dinner's ready, + Hurry up, or you'll be late, + Then you'll sure be cross and heady + If there's nothin' left to ate." + +Keith gave a relieved whoop and bounded toward the door. Never had +Susan's "dinner-bell" been a more welcome sound. Surely, at dinner, +his throat would have to loosen up, and that lump could then be +swallowed. + +More slowly Keith's father rose from his chair. + +"How impossible Susan is," he sighed. "I believe she grows worse every +day. Still I suppose I ought to be thankful she's good-natured--which +that absurd doggerel of hers proves that she is. However, I should +like to put a stop to it. I declare, I believe I will put a stop to +it, too! I'm going to insist on her announcing her meals in a proper +manner. Oh, Susan," he began resolutely, as he flung open the dining- +room door. + +"Well, sir?" Susan stood at attention, her arms akimbo. + +"Susan, I--I insist--that is, I wish---" + +"You was sayin'--" she reminded him coldly, as he came to a helpless +pause. + +"Yes. That is, I was saying--" His eyes wavered and fell to the table. +"Oh, hash--red-flannel hash! That's fine, Susan!" + +But Susan was not to be cajoled. Her eyes still regarded him coldly. + +"Yes, sir, hash. We most generally does have beet hash after b'iled +dinner, sir. You was sayin'?" + +"Nothing, Susan, nothing. I--I've changed my mind," murmured the man +hastily, pulling out his chair. "Well, Keith, will you have some of +Susan's nice hash?" + +"Yes, sir," said Keith. + +Susan said nothing. But was there a quiet smile on her lips as she +left the room? If so, neither the man nor the boy seemed to notice it. + +As for the very obvious change of attitude on the part of the man-- +Keith had witnessed a like phenomenon altogether too often to give it +a second thought. And as for the doggerel that had brought about the +situation--that, also, was too familiar to cause comment. + +It had been years since Susan first called them to dinner with her +"poem"; but Keith could remember just how pleased she had been, and +how gayly she had repeated it over and over, so as not to forget it. + +"Oh, of course I know that 'ate' ain't good etiquette in that place," +she had admitted at the time. "It should be 'eat.' But 'eat' don't +rhyme, an' 'ate' does. So I'm goin' to use it. An' I can, anyhow. It's +poem license; an' that'll let you do anything." + +Since then she had used the verse for every meal--except when she was +out of temper--and by substituting breakfast or supper for dinner, she +had a call that was conveniently universal. + +The fact that she used it ONLY when she was good-natured constituted +an unfailing barometer of the atmospheric condition of the kitchen, +and was really, in a way, no small convenience--especially for little +boys in quest of cookies or bread-and-jam. As for the master of the +house--this was not the first time he had threatened an energetic +warfare against that "absurd doggerel" (which he had cordially +abhorred from the very first); neither would it probably be the last +time that Susan's calm "Well, sir?" should send him into ignominious +defeat before the battle was even begun. And, really, after all was +said and done, there was still that one unfailing refuge for his +discomforted recollection: he could be thankful, when he heard it, +that she was good-natured; and with Susan that was no small thing to +be thankful for, as everybody knew--who knew Susan. + +To-day, therefore, the defeat was not so bitter as to take all the +sweetness out of the "red-flannel" hash, and the frown on Daniel +Burton's face was quite gone when Susan brought in the dessert. Nor +did it return that night, even when Susan's shrill voice caroled +through the hall: + + "Supper's ready, supper's ready, + Hurry up, or you'll be late, + Then you'll sure be cross and heady + If there's nothin' left to ate." + + + + +CHAPTER III + +FOR JERRY AND NED + + +It was Susan Betts who discovered that Keith was not reading so much +that summer. + +"An' him with his nose always in a book before," as she said one day +to Mrs. McGuire. "An' he don't act natural, somehow, neither, ter my +way of thinkin'. Have YOU noticed anything?" + +"Why, no, I don't know as I have," answered Mrs. McGuire from the +other side of the fence, "except that he's always traipsin' off to the +woods with his father. But then, he's always done that, more or less." + +"Indeed he has! But always before he's lugged along a book, sometimes +two; an' now--why he hain't even read the book his father give him on +his birthday. I know, 'cause I asked him one day what 't was about, +an' he said he didn't know; he hadn't read it." + +"Deary me, Susan! Well, what if he hadn't? I shouldn't fret about +that. My gracious, Susan, if you had four children same as I have, +instead of one, I guess you wouldn't do no worryin' jest because a boy +didn't read a book. Though, as for my John, he---" + +Susan lifted her chin. + +"I wasn't talkin' about your children, Mis' McGuire," she interrupted. +"An' I reckon nobody'd do no worryin' if they didn't read. But Master +Keith is a different supposition entirely. He's very intelligible, +Master Keith is, and so is his father before him. Books is food to +them--real food. Hain't you ever heard of folks devourin' books? Well, +they do it. Of course I don't mean literaryly, but metaphysically." + +"Oh, land o' love, Susan Betts!" cried Mrs. McGuire, throwing up both +hands and turning away scornfully. "Of course, when you get to talkin' +like that, NOBODY can say anything to you! However in the world that +poor Mr. Burton puts up with you, I don't see. _I_ wouldn't--not a +day--not a single day!" And by way of emphasis she entered her house +and shut the door with a slam. + +Susan Betts, left alone, shrugged her shoulders disdainfully. + +"Well, 'nobody asked you, sir, she said,'" she quoted, under her +breath, and slammed her door, also, by way of emphasis. + +Yet both Susan and Mrs. McGuire knew very well that the next day would +find them again in the usual friendly intercourse over the back-yard +fence. + +Susan Betts was a neighbor's daughter. She had lived all her life in +the town, and she knew everybody. Just because she happened to work in +Daniel Burton's kitchen was no reason, to her mind, why she should not +be allowed to express her opinion freely on all occasions, and on all +subjects, and to all persons. Such being her conviction she conducted +herself accordingly. And Susan always lived up to her convictions. + +In the kitchen to-day she found Keith. + +"Oh, I say, Susan, I was looking for you. Dad wants you." + +"What for?" + +"I don't know; but I GUESS it's because he wants to have something +besides beans and codfish and fish-hash to eat. Anyhow, he SAID he was +going to speak to you about it." + +Susan stiffened into inexorable sternness. + +"So he's goin' ter speak ter me, is he? Well, 't will be mighty little +good that'll do, as he ought to know very well. Beefsteaks an' roast +fowls cost money. Has he got the money for me?" + +Without waiting for an answer to her question, she strode through the +door leading to the dining-room and shut it crisply behind her. + +The boy did not follow her. Alone, in the kitchen he drummed idly on +the window-pane, watching the first few drops of a shower that had +been darkening the sky for an hour past. + +After a minute he turned slowly and gazed with listless eyes about the +kitchen. On the table lay a folded newspaper. After a moment's +hesitation he crossed the room toward it. He had the air of one +impelled by some inner force against his will. + +He picked the paper up, but did not at once look at it. In fact, he +looked anywhere but at it. Then, with a sudden jerk, he faced it. +Shivering a little he held it nearer, then farther away, then nearer +again. Then, with an inarticulate little cry he dropped the paper and +hurried from the room. + +No one knew better than Keith himself that he was not reading much +this summer. Not that he put it into words, but he had a feeling that +so long as he was not SEEING how blurred the printed words were, he +would not be sure that they were blurred. Yet he knew that always, +whenever he saw a book or paper, his fingers fairly tingled to pick it +up--and make sure. Most of the time, however, Keith tried not to +notice the books and papers. Systematically he tried to forget that +there were books and papers--and he tried to forget the Great Terror. + +Sometimes he persuaded himself that he was doing this. He contrived to +keep himself very busy that summer. Almost every day, when it did not +rain, he was off for a long walk with his father in the woods. His +father liked to walk in the woods. Keith never had to urge him to do +that. And what good times they had!--except that Keith did wish that +his father would not talk quite so much about what great things he, +Keith, was going to do when he should have become a man--and a great +artist. + +One day he ventured to remonstrate. + +"But, dad, maybe I--I shan't be a great artist at all. Maybe I shan't +be even a little one. Maybe I shall be just a--a man." + +Keith never forgot his father's answer nor his father's anguished face +as he made that answer. + +"Keith, I don't ever want you to let me hear you say that again. I +want you to KNOW that you're going to succeed. And you will succeed. +God will not be so cruel as to deny me that. _I_ have failed. You +needn't shake your head, boy, and say 'Oh, dad!' like that. I know +perfectly well what I'm talking about. _I_ HAVE FAILED---though it is +not often that I'll admit it, even to myself. But when I heard you say +to-day--- + +"Keith, listen to me. You've got to succeed. You've got to succeed not +only for yourself, but for Jerry and Ned, and for--me. All my hopes +for Jerry and Ned and for--myself are in you, boy. That's why, in all +our walks together, and at home in the studio, I'm trying to teach you +something that you will want to know by and by." + +Keith never remonstrated with his father after that. He felt worse +than ever now when his father talked of what great things he was going +to do; but he knew that remonstrances would do no good, but rather +harm; and he did not want to hear his father talk again as he had +talked that day, about Jerry and Ned and himself. As if it were not +bad enough, under the best of conditions, to have to be great and +famous for one's two dead brothers and one's father; while if one were +blind--- + +But Keith refused to think of that. He tried very hard, also, to +absorb everything that his father endeavored to teach him. He listened +and watched and said "yes, sir," and he did his best to make the +chalks and charcoal that were put into his hands follow the copy set +for him. + +To be sure, in this last undertaking, his efforts were not always +successful. The lines wavered and blurred and were far from clear. +Still, they were not half so bad as the print in books; and if it +should not get any worse--Besides, had he not always loved to draw +cats and dogs and faces ever since he could hold a pencil? + +And so, with some measure of hope as to the results, he was setting +himself to be that great and famous artist that his father said he +must be. + +But it was not all work for Keith these summer days. There were games +and picnics and berry expeditions with the boys and girls, all of +which he hailed with delight--one did not have to read, or even study +wavering lines and figures, on picnics or berrying expeditions! And +that WAS a relief. To be sure, there was nearly always Mazie, and if +there was Mazie, there was bound to be Dorothy. And Dorothy had said-- +Some way he could never see Dorothy without remembering what she did +say on that day he had come home from Uncle Joe Harrington's. + +Not that he exactly blamed her, either. For was not he himself acting +as if he felt the same way and did not like to look at blind persons? +Else why did he so persistently keep away from Uncle Joe now? Not +once, since that first day, had he been up to see the poor old blind +man. And before--why, before he used to go several times a week. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + +SCHOOL + + +And so the summer passed, and September came. And September brought a +new problem--school. And school meant books. + +Two days before school began Keith sought Susan Betts in the kitchen. + +"Say, Susan, that was awfully good johnny-cake we had this morning." + +Susan picked up another plate to dry and turned toward her visitor. +Her face was sternly grave, though there was something very like a +twinkle in her eye. + +"There ain't no cookies, if that's what you're wantin'," she said. + +"Aw, Susan, I never said a word about cookies." + +"Then what is it you want? It's plain to be seen there's something, I +ween." + +"My, how easy you do make rhymes, Susan. What's that 'I ween' mean?" + +"Now, Keith Burton, this beatin' the bush like this don't do one mite +of good. You might jest as well out with it first as last. Now, what +is it you want?" + +Keith drew a long sigh. + +"Well, Susan, there IS something--a little something--only I meant +what I said about the johnny-cake and the rhymes; truly, I did." + +"Well?" Susan was smiling faintly. + +"Susan, you know you can make dad do anything." + +Susan began to stiffen, and Keith hastened to disarm her. + +"No, no, truly! This is the part I want. You CAN make dad do anything; +and I want you to do it for me." + +"Do what?" + +"Make him let me off from school any more." + +"Let you off from school!" In her stupefied amazement Susan actually +forgot to pick up another plate from the dishpan. + +"Yes. Tell him I'm sick, or 't isn't good for me. And truly, 't isn't +good for me. And truly, I am quite a little sick, Susan. I don't feel +well a bit. There's a kind of sinking feeling in my stomach, and---" + +But Susan had found her wits and her tongue by this time, and she gave +free rein to her wrath. + +"Let you off from school, indeed! Why, Keith Burton, I'm ashamed of +you--an' you that I've always boasted of! What do you want to do--grow +up a perfect ignominious?" + +Keith drew back resentfully, and uptilted his chin. + +"No, Susan Betts, I'm not wanting to be a--a ignominious, and I don't +intend to be one, either. I'm going to be an artist--a great big +famous artist, and I don't NEED school for that. How are +multiplication tables and history and grammar going to help me paint +big pictures? That's what I want to know. But I'm afraid that dad-- +Say, WON'T you tell dad that I don't NEED books any more, and---"But +he stopped short, so extraordinary was the expression that had come to +Susan Betts's face. If it were possible to think of Susan Betts as +crying, he should think she was going to cry now. + +"Need books? Why, child, there ain't nobody but what needs books. An' +I guess I know! What do you suppose I wouldn't give now if I could 'a' +had books an' book-learnin' when I was young? I could 'a' writ real +poetry then that would sell. I could 'a' spoke out an' said things +that are in my soul, an' that I CAN'T say now, 'cause I don't know the +words that--that will impress what I mean. Now, look a-here, Keith +Burton, you're young. You've got a chance. Do you see to it that you +make good. An' it's books that will help you do it." + +"But books won't help me paint, Susan." + +"They will, too. Books will help you do anything." + +"Then you won't ask dad?" + +"Indeed, I won't." + +"But I don't see how books---" With a long sigh Keith turned away. + +In the studio the next morning he faced his father. + +"Dad, you can't learn to paint pictures by just READING how to do it, +can you?" + +"You certainly cannot, my boy." + +"There! I told Susan Betts so, but she wouldn't LISTEN to me. And so-- +I don't have to go to school any more, do I?" + +"Don't have to go to school any more! Why, Keith, what an absurd idea! +Of course you've got to go to school!" + +"But just to be an artist and paint pictures, I don't see---" + +But his father cut him short and would not listen. + +Five minutes later a very disappointed, disheartened young lad left +the studio and walked slowly down the hall. + +There was no way out of it. If one were successfully to be Jerry and +Ned and dad and one's self, all in one, there was nothing but school +and more school, and, yes, college, that would give one the proper +training. Dad had said it. + +Keith went to school the next morning. With an oh-well-I-don't-care +air he slung his books over his shoulder and swung out the gate, +whistling blithely. + +It might not be so bad, after all, he was telling himself. Perhaps the +print would be plainer now. Anyway, he could learn a lot in class +listening to the others; and maybe some of the boys would study with +him, and do the reading part. + +But it was not to be so easy as Keith hoped for. To begin with, the +print had not grown any clearer. It was more blurred than ever. To be +sure, it was much worse with one eye than with the other; but he could +not keep one eye shut all the time. Besides--his eyes ached now if he +tried to use them much, and grew red and inflamed, and he was afraid +his father would notice them. He began to see strange flashes of +rainbow light now, too. And sometimes little haloes around the lamp +flame. As if one could study books with all that! + +True, he learned something in class--but naturally he was never called +upon to recite what had already been given, so he invariably failed +miserably when it came to his turn. Even the "boy to study with" +proved to be a delusion and a snare, for no boy was found who cared to +do "all the reading," without being told the reason why it was +expected of him--and that was exactly what Keith was straining every +nerve to keep to himself. + +And so week in and week out Keith stumbled along through those misery- +filled days, each one seemingly a little more unbearable than the +last. Of course, it could not continue indefinitely, and Keith, in his +heart, knew it. Almost every lesson was more or less of a failure, and +recitation hour was a torture and a torment. The teacher alternately +reproved and reproached him, with frequent appeals to his pride, +holding up for comparison his splendid standing of the past. His +classmates gibed and jeered mercilessly. And Keith stood it all. Only +a tightening of his lips and a new misery in his eyes showed that he +had heard and understood. He made neither apology nor explanation. +Above all, by neither word nor sign did he betray that, because the +print in his books was blurred, he could not study. + +Then came the day when his report card was sent to his father, and he +himself was summoned to the studio to answer for it. + +"Well, my son, what is the meaning of that?" + +Keith had never seen his father look so stern. He was holding up the +card, face outward. Keith knew that the damning figures were there, +and he suspected what they were, though he could see only a blurred +mass of indistinct marks. With one last effort he attempted still to +cling to his subterfuge. + +"What--what is it?" he stammered. + +"'What is it?'--and in the face of a record like that!" cried his +father sternly. "That's exactly what I want to know. What is it? Is +this the way, Keith, that you're showing me that you don't want to go +to school? I haven't forgotten, you see, that you tried to beg off +going this fall. Now, what is the matter?" + +Keith shifted his position miserably. His face grew white and +strained-looking. + +"I--I couldn't seem to get my lessons, dad." + +"Couldn't! You mean you wouldn't, Keith. Surely, you're not trying to +make me think you couldn't have made a better record than this, if +you'd tried." + +There was no answer. + +"Keith!" There was only pleading in the voice now--pleading with an +unsteadiness more eloquent than words. "Have you forgotten so soon +what I told you?--how now you hold all the hopes of Jerry and Ned and +of--dad in your own two hands? Keith, do you think, do you really +think you're treating Jerry and Ned and dad--square?" + +For a moment there was no answer; then a very faint, constrained voice +asked: + +"What were those figures, dad?" + +"Read for yourself." With the words the card was thrust into his hand. + +Keith bent his head. His eyes apparently were studying the card. + +"Suppose you read them aloud, Keith." + +There was a moment's pause; then with a little convulsive breath the +words came. + +"I--can't--dad." + +The man smiled grimly. + +"Well, I don't know as I wonder. They are pretty bad. However, I guess +we'll have to have them. Read them aloud, Keith." + +"But, honest, dad, I can't. I mean--they're all blurred and run +together." The boy's face was white like paper now. + +Daniel Burton gave his son a quick glance. + +"Blurred? Run together?" He reached for the card and held it a moment +before his own eyes. Then sharply he looked at his son again. "You +mean--Can't you read any of those figures--the largest ones?" + +Keith shook his head. + +"Why, Keith, how long---" A sudden change came to his face. "You mean +--is that the reason you haven't been able to get your lessons, boy?" + +Keith nodded dumbly, miserably. + +"But, my dear boy, why in the world didn't you say so? Look here, +Keith, how long has this been going on?" + +There was no answer. + +"Since the very first of school?" + +"Before that." + +"How long before that?" + +"Last spring on my--birthday. I noticed it first--then." + +"Good Heavens! As long as that, and never a word to me? Why, Keith, +what in the world possessed you? Why didn't you tell me? We'd have had +that fixed up long ago." + +"Fixed up?" Keith's eyes were eager, incredulous. + +"To be sure. We'd have had some glasses, of course." + +Keith shook his head. All the light fled from his face. + +"Uncle Joe Harrington tried that, but it didn't help--any." + +"Uncle Joe! But Uncle Joe is---" Daniel Burton stopped short. A new +look came to his eyes. Into his son's face he threw a glance at once +fearful, searching, rebellious. Then he straightened up angrily. + +"Nonsense, Keith! Don't get silly notions into your head," he snapped +sharply. "It's nothing but a little near-sightedness, and we'll have +some glasses to remedy that in no time. We'll go down to the +optician's to-morrow. Meanwhile I'll drop a note to your teacher, and +you needn't go to school again till we get your glasses." + +Near-sightedness! Keith caught at the straw and held to it fiercely. +Near-sightedness! Of course, it was that, and not blindness, like +Uncle Joe's at all. Didn't dad know? Of course, he did! Still, if it +was near-sightedness he ought to be able to see near to; and yet it +was just as blurred--But, then, of course it WAS near-sightedness. Dad +said it was. + +They went to the optician's the next morning. It seemed there was an +oculist, too, and he had to be seen. When the lengthy and arduous +examinations were concluded, Keith drew a long breath. Surely now, +after all that-- + +Just what they said Keith did not know. He knew only that he did not +get any glasses, and that his father was very angry, and very much put +out about something, and that he kept declaring that these old idiots +didn't know their business, anyway, and the only thing to do was to go +to Boston where there was somebody who DID know his business. + +They went to Boston a few days later. It was not a long journey, but +Keith hailed it with delight, and was very much excited over the +prospect of it. Still, he did not enjoy it very well, for with his +father he had to go from one doctor to another, and none of them +seemed really to understand his business--that is, not well enough to +satisfy his father, else why did he go to so many? And there did not +seem to be anywhere any glasses that would do any good. + +Keith began to worry then, for fear that his father had been wrong, +and that it was not near-sightedness after all. He could not forget +Uncle Joe--and Uncle Joe had not been able to find any glasses that +did any good. Besides, he heard his father and the doctors talking a +great deal about "an accident," and a "consequent injury to the optic +nerve"; and he had to answer a lot of questions about the time when he +was eleven years old and ran into the big maple tree with his sled, +cutting a bad gash in his forehead. But as if that, so long ago, could +have anything to do with things looking blurred now! + +But it did have something to do with it--several of the doctors said +that; and they said it was possible that a slight operation now might +arrest the disease. They would try it. Only one eye was badly affected +at present. + +So it was arranged that Keith should stay a month with one of the +doctors, letting his father go back to Hinsdale. + +It was not a pleasant experience, and it seemed to Keith anything but +a "slight operation"; but at the end of the month the bandages were +off, and his father had come to take him back home. + +The print was not quite so blurred now, though it was still far from +clear, and Keith noticed that his father and the doctors had a great +deal to say to each other in very low tones, and that his father's +face was very grave. + +Then they started for home. On the journey his father talked +cheerfully, even gayly; but Keith was not at all deceived. For perhaps +half an hour he watched his father closely. Then he spoke. + +"Dad, you might just as well tell me." + +"Tell you what?" + +"About those doctors--what they said." + +"Why, they said all sorts of things, Keith. You heard them yourself." +The man spoke lightly, still cheerily. + +"Oh, yes, they said all sorts of things, but they didn't say anything +PARTICULAR before me. They always talked to you soft and low on one +side. I want to know what they said then." + +"Why, really, Keith, they---" + +"Dad," interposed the boy a bit tensely, when his father's hesitation +left the sentence unfinished, "you might just as well tell me. I know +already it isn't good, or you'd have told me right away. And if it's +bad--I might just as well know it now, 'cause I'll have to know it +sometime. Dad, what did they say? Don't worry. I can stand it--honest, +I can. I've GOT to stand it. Besides, I've been expecting it--ever so +long. 'Keith, you're going to be blind.' I wish't you'd say it right +out like that--if you've got to say it." + +But the man shuddered and gave a low cry. + +"No, no, Keith, never! I'll not say it. You're not going to be blind!" + +"But didn't they say I was?" + +"They said--they said it MIGHT be. They couldn't tell yet." The man +wet his lips and cleared his throat huskily. "They said--it would be +some time yet before they could tell, for sure. And even then, if it +came, there might be another operation that--But for now, Keith, we've +got to wait--that's all. I've got some drops, and there are certain +things you'll have to do each day. You can't go to school, and you +can't read, of course; but there are lots of things you can do. And +there are lots of things we can do together--you'll see. And it's +coming out all right. It's bound to come out all right." + +"Yes, sir." Keith said the two words, then shut his lips tight. Keith +could not trust himself to talk much just then. Babies and girls +cried, of course; but men, and boys who were almost men--they did not +cry. + +For a long minute he said nothing; then, with his chin held high and +his breath sternly under control, he said: + +"Of course, dad, if I do get blind, you won't expect me to be Jerry, +and Ned, and--and you, all in a bunch, then, will you?" + +This time it was dad who could not speak--except with a strong right +arm that clasped with a pressure that hurt. + + + + +CHAPTER V + +WAITING + + +Not for some days after his return from Boston did Keith venture out +upon the street. He knew then at once that the whole town had heard +all about his trip to Boston and what the doctors had said. He tried +not to see the curious glances cast in his direction. He tried not to +care that the youngest McGuire children stood at their gate and +whispered, with fingers plainly pointing toward himself. + +He did not go near the schoolhouse, and he stayed at the post-office +until he felt sure all the scholars must have reached home. Then, just +at the corner of his own street, he met Mazie Sanborn and Dorothy +Parkman face to face. He would have passed quickly, with the briefest +sort of recognition, but Mazie stopped him short. + +"Keith, oh, Keith, it isn't true, is it?" she cried breathlessly. "You +aren't going to be blind?" + +"Mazie, how could you!" cried Dorothy sharply. And because she +shuddered and half turned away, Keith saw only the shudder and the +turning away, and did not realize that it was rebuke and remonstrance, +and not aversion, that Dorothy was expressing so forcibly. + +Keith stiffened. + +"Say, Keith, I'm awfully sorry, and so's Dorothy. Why, she hasn't +talked about a thing, hardly, but that, since she heard of it." + +"Mazie, I have, too," protested Dorothy sharply. + +"Well, anyway, it was she who insisted on coming around this way to- +day," teased Mazie wickedly; "and when I---" + +"I'm going home, whether you are or not," cut in Miss Dorothy, with +dignity. And with a low chuckle Mazie tossed a good-bye to Keith and +followed her lead. + +Keith, his chin aggressively high, strode in the opposite direction. + +"I suppose she wanted to see how really bad I did look," he was +muttering fiercely, under his breath. "Well, she needn't worry. If I +do get blind, I'll take good care she don't have to look at me, nor +Mazie, nor any of the rest of them." + +Keith went out on the street very little after that, and especially he +kept away from it after school hours. They were not easy--those winter +days. The snow lay deep in the woods, and it was too cold for long +walks. He could not read, nor paint, nor draw, nor use his eyes about +anything that tried them. But he was by no means idle. He had found +now "the boy to do the reading"--his father. For hours every day they +studied together, Keith memorizing, where it was necessary, what his +father read, always discussing and working out the problems together. +That he could not paint or draw was a great cross to his father, he +knew. + +Keith noticed, too,--and noticed it with a growing heartache,--that +nothing was ever said now about his being Jerry and Ned and dad +himself all in a bunch. And he understood, of course, that if he was +going to be blind, he could not be Jerry and-- + +But Keith was honestly trying not to think of that; and he welcomed +most heartily anything or anybody that helped him toward that end. + +Now there was Susan. Not once had Susan ever spoken to him of his +eyes, whether he could or could not see. But Susan knew about it. He +was sure of that. First he suspected it when he found her, the next +day after his return from Boston, crying in the pantry. + +SUSAN CRYING! Keith stood in the doorway and stared unbelievingly. He +had not supposed that Susan could cry. + +"Why, Susan!" he gasped. "What IS the matter?" + +He never forgot the look on Susan's face as she sprang toward him, or +the quick cry she gave. + +"Oh, Keith, my boy, my boy!" Then instantly she straightened back, +caught up a knife, and began to peel an onion from a pan on the shelf +before her. "Cryin'? Nonsense!" she snapped quaveringly. "Can't a body +peel a pan of onions without being accused of cryin' about somethin'? +Shucks! What should I be cryin' for, anyway, to be sure? + + Some things need a knife, + An' some things need a pill, + An' some things jest a laugh'll make a cure. + But jest you bet your life, + You may cry jest fit to kill, + An' never cure nothin'--that is sure. + +That's what I always say when I see folks cryin'. An' it's so, too. +Here, Keith, want a cooky? An' take a jam tart, too. I made 'em this +mornin', 'specially for you." + +With which astounding procedure--for her--Susan pushed a plate of +cookies and tarts toward him, then picked up her pan of onions and +hurried into the kitchen. + +Once again Keith stared. Cookies and jam tarts, and made for him? If +anything, this was even more incomprehensible than were the tears in +Susan's eyes. Then suddenly the suspicion came to him--SUSAN KNEW. And +this was her way--- + +The suspicion did not become a certainty, however, until two days +later. Then he overheard Susan and Mrs. McGuire talking in the +kitchen. He had slipped into the pantry to look for another of those +cookies made for him, when he heard Mrs. McGuire burst into the +kitchen and accost Susan agitatedly. And her first words were such +that he could not bring himself to step out into view. + +"Susan," she had cried, "it ain't true, is it? IS it true that Keith +Burton is going--BLIND? My John says---" + +"Sh-h! You don't have to shout it out like that, do ye?" demanded +Susan crossly, yet in a voice that was far from steady. "Besides, +that's a very extravagated statement." + +"You mean exaggerated, I suppose," retorted Mrs. McGuire impatiently. +"Well, I'm sure I'm glad if it is, of course. But can't you tell me +anything about it? Or, don't you know?" + +Keith knew--though he could not see her--just how Susan was drawing +herself up to her full height. + +"I guess I know--all there is to know, Mis' McGuire," she said then +coldly. "But there ain't anybody KNOWS anything. We're jest waitin' to +see." Her voice had grown unsteady again. + +"You mean he MAY be blind, later?" + +"Yes." + +"Oh, the poor boy! Ain't that terrible? How CAN they stand it?" + +"I notice there are things in this world that have to be stood. An' +when they have to be stood, they might as well be--stood, an' done +with it." + +"Yes, I suppose so," sighed Mrs. McGuire. Then, after a pause: "But +what is it--that's makin' him blind?" + +"I don't know. They ain't sayin'. I thought maybe't was a catamount, +but they say't ain't that." + +"But when is it liable to come?" + +"Come? How do I know? How does anybody know?" snapped Susan tartly. +"Look a-here, Mis' McGuire, you must excuse me from discoursin' +particulars. We don't talk 'em here. None of us don't." + +"Well, you needn't be so short about it, Susan Betts. I'm only tryin' +to show a little sympathy. You don't seem to realize at all what a +dreadful thing this is. My John says---" + +"Don't I--DON'T I?" Susan's voice shook with emotion. "Don't you +s'pose that I know what it would be with the sun put out, an' the moon +an' the stars, an' never a thing to look at but black darkness all the +rest of your life? Never to be able to see the blue sky, or your +father's face, or--But talkin' about it don't help any. Look a-here, +if somethin' awful was goin' to happen to you, would YOU want folks to +be talkin' to you all the time about it? No, I guess you wouldn't. An' +so we don't talk here. We're just--waitin'. It may come in a year, it +may come sooner, or later. It may not come at all. An' while we ARE +waitin' there ain't nothin' we can do except to do ev'rything the +doctor tells us, an' hope--'t won't ever come." + +Even Mrs. McGuire could have had no further doubt about Susan's +"caring." No one who heard Susan's voice then could have doubted it. +Mrs. McGuire, for a moment, made no answer; then, with an inarticulate +something that might have passed for almost any sort of comment, she +rose to her feet and left the house. + +In the pantry, Keith, the cookies long since forgotten, shamelessly +listened at the door and held his breath to see which way Susan's +footsteps led. Then, when he knew that the kitchen was empty, he +slipped out, still cookyless, and hurried upstairs to his own room. + +Keith understood, after that, why Susan did not talk to him about his +eyes; and because he knew she would not talk, he felt at ease and at +peace with her. + +It was not so with others. With others (except with his father) he +never knew when a dread question or a hated comment was to be made. +And so he came to avoid those others more and more. + +At the first signs of spring, and long before the snow was off the +ground, Keith took to the woods. When his father did not care to go, +he went alone. It was as if he wanted to fill his inner consciousness +with the sights and sounds of his beloved out-of-doors, so that when +his outer eyes were darkened, his inner eyes might still hold the +pictures. Keith did not say this, even to himself; but when every day +Susan questioned him minutely as to what he had seen, and begged him +to describe every budding tree and every sunset, he wondered; was it +possible that Susan, too, was trying to fill that inner consciousness +with visions? + +Keith was thrown a good deal with Susan these days. Sometimes it +seemed as if there were almost no one but Susan. Certainly all those +others who talked and questioned--he did not want to be with them. And +his father--sometimes it seemed to Keith that his father did not like +to be with him as well as he used to. And, of course, if he was going +to be blind--Dad never had liked disagreeable subjects. Had HE become +--a disagreeable subject? + +And so there seemed, indeed, at times, no one but Susan. Susan, +however, was a host in herself. Susan was never cross now, and almost +always she had a cooky or a jam tart for him. She told lots of funny +stories, and there were always her rhymes and jingles. She had a new +one every day, sometimes two or three a day. + +There was no subject too big or too little for Susan to put into +rhyme. Susan said that something inside of her was a gushing siphon of +poems, anyway, and she just had to get them out of her system. And she +told Keith that spring always made the siphon gush worse than ever, +for some reason. She didn't know why. + +Keith suspected that she said this by way of an excuse for repeating +so many of her verses to him just now. But Keith was not deceived. He +had not forgotten what Susan had said to Mrs. McGuire in the kitchen +that day; and he knew very well that all this especial attention to +him was only Susan's way of trying to help him "wait." + + + + +CHAPTER VI + +LIGHTS OUT + + +And so Keith waited, through the summer and into another winter. And +April came. Keith was not listening to Susan's rhymes and jingles now, +nor was he tramping through the woods in search of the first sign of +spring. Both eyes had become badly affected now. Keith knew that and-- + +THE FOG HAD COME. Keith had seen the fog for several days before he +knew what it was. He had supposed it to be really--fog. Then one day +he said to Susan: + +"Where's the sun? We haven't had any BRIGHT sun for days and days-- +just this horrid old foggy fog." + +"Fog? Why, there ain't any fog!" exclaimed Susan. "The sun is as +bright---" She stopped short. Keith could not see her face very +clearly--Keith was not seeing anything clearly these days. "Nonsense, +Keith, of course, the sun is shinin'!" snapped Susan. "Now don't get +silly notions in your head!" Then she turned and hurried from the +room. + +And Keith knew. And he knew that Susan knew. + +Keith did not mention the fog to his father--dad did not like +disagreeable subjects. But somebody must have mentioned it--Susan, +perhaps. At all events, before the week was out Keith went with his +father again to Boston. + +It was a sorry journey. Keith did not need to go to Boston. Keith knew +now. There was no one who could tell him anything. Dad might laugh and +joke and call attention to everything amusing that he wanted to--it +would make no difference. Besides, as if he could not hear the shake +in dad's voice under all the fun, and as if he could not feel the +tremble in dad's hand on his shoulder! + +Boston was the same dreary round of testing, talk, and questions, +hushed voices and furtive glances, hurried trips from place to place; +only this time it was all sharper, shorter, more decisive, and there +was no operation. It was not the time for that now, the doctors said. +Moreover, this time dad did not laugh, or joke, or even talk on the +homeward journey. But that, too, made no difference. Keith already +knew. + +He knew so well that he did not question him at all. But if he had not +known, he would have known from Susan the next day. For he found Susan +crying three times the next forenoon, and each time she snapped out so +short and sharp about something so entirely foreign from what he asked +her that he would have known that Susan knew. + +Keith did wonder how many months it would be. Some way he had an idea +it would be very few now. As long as it was coming he wished it would +come, and come quick. This waiting business--On the whole he was glad +that Susan was cross, and that his father spent his days shut away in +his own room with orders that he was not to be disturbed. For, as for +talking about this thing-- + +It was toward the last of July that Keith discovered how indistinct +were growing the outlines of the big pictures on the wall at the end +of the hall. Day by day he had to walk nearer and nearer before he +could see them at all. He wondered just how many steps would bring him +to the wall itself. He was tempted once to count them--but he could +not bring himself to do that; so he knew then that in his heart he did +not want to know just how many days it would be before-- + +But there came a day when he was but two steps away. He told himself +it would be in two days then. But it did not come in two days. It did +not come in a week. Then, very suddenly, it came. + +He woke up one morning to find it quite dark. For a minute he thought +it WAS dark; then the clock struck seven--and it was August. + +Something within Keith seemed to snap then. The long-pent strain of +months gave way. With one agonized cry of "Dad, it's come--it's come!" +he sprang from the bed, then stood motionless in the middle of the +room, his arms outstretched. But when his father and Susan reached the +room he had fallen to the floor in a dead faint. + +It was some weeks before Keith stood upright on his feet again. His +illness was a long and serious one. Late in September, Mrs. McGuire, +hanging out her clothes, accosted Susan over the back-yard fence. + +"I heard down to the store last night that Keith Burton was goin' to +get well." + +"Of course he's goin' to get well," retorted Susan with emphasis. "I +knew he was, all the time." + +"All the same, I think it's a pity he is." Mrs. McGuire's lips came +together a bit firmly. "He's stone blind, I hear, an' my John says--" + +"Well, what if he is?" demanded Susan, almost fiercely. "You wouldn't +kill the child, would you? Besides SEEIN' is only one of his +facilities. He's got all the rest left. I reckon he'll show you he can +do somethin' with them." + +Mrs. McGuire shook her head mournfully. + +"Poor boy, poor boy! How's he feel himself? Has he got his senses, his +real senses yet?" + +"He's just beginnin' to." The harshness in Susan's voice betrayed her +difficulty in controlling it. "Up to now he hain't sensed anything, +much. Of course, part of the time he hain't known ANYTHING--jest lay +there in a stupid. Then, other times he's jest moaned of-of the dark-- +always the dark. + +"At first he--when he talked--seemed to be walkin' through the woods; +an' he'd tell all about what he saw; the 'purple sunsets,' an' +'dancin' leaves,' an' the merry little brooks hurryin' down the +hillside,' till you could jest SEE the place he was talkin' about. But +now--now he's comin' to full conscientiousness, the doctor says; an' +he don't talk of anything only--only the dark. An' pretty quick he'll +--know." + +"An' yet you want that poor child to live, Susan Betts!" + +"Of course I want him to live!" + +"But what can he DO?" + +"Do? There ain't nothin' he can't do. Why, Mis' McGuire, listen! I've +been readin' up. First, I felt as you do--a little. I--I didn't WANT +him to live. Then I heard of somebody who was blind, an' what he did. +He wrote a great book. I've forgotten its name, but it was somethin' +about Paradise. PARADISE--an' he was in prison, too. Think of writin' +about Paradise when you're shut up in jail--an' blind, at that! Well, +I made up my mind if that man could see Paradise through them prison +bars with his poor blind eyes, then Keith could. An' I was goin' to +have him do it, too. An' so I went down to the library an' asked Miss +Hemenway for a book about him. An' I read it. An' then she told me +about more an' more folks that was blind, an' what they had done. An' +I read about them, too." + +"Well, gracious me, Susan Betts, if you ain't the limit!" commented +Mrs. McGuire, half admiringly, half disapprovingly. + +"Well, I did. An'--why, Mis' McGuire, you hain't any inception of an +idea of what those men an' women an'--yes, children--did. Why, one of +'em wasn't only blind, but deaf an' dumb, too. She was a girl. An' now +she writes books an' gives lecturin's, an', oh, ev'rything." + +"Maybe. I ain't sayin' they don't. But I guess somebody else has to do +a part of it. Look at Keith right here now. How are you goin' to take +care of him when he gets up an' begins to walk around? Why, he can't +see to walk or--or feed himself, or anything. Has the nurse gone?" + +Susan shook her head. Her lips came together grimly. + +"No. Goes next week, though. Land's sakes, but I hope that woman is +expulsive enough! Them entrained nurses always cost a lot, I guess. +But we've just had to have her while he was so sick. But she's goin' +next week." + +"But what ARE you goin' to do? You can't tag him around all day an' do +your other work, too. Of course, there's his father--" + +"His father! Good Heavens, woman, I wonder if you think I'd trust that +boy to his father?" demanded Susan indignantly. "Why, once let him get +his nose into that paint-box, an' he don't know anything--not +anything. Why, I wouldn't trust him with a baby rabbit--if I cared for +the rabbit. Besides, he don't like to be with Keith, nor see him, nor +think of him. He feels so bad." + +"Humph! Well, if he does feel bad I don't think that's a very nice way +to show it. Not think of him, indeed! Well, I guess he'll find SOME +one has got to think of him now. But there! that's what you might +expect of Daniel Burton, I s'pose, moonin' all day over those silly +pictures of his. As my John says--" + +"They're not silly pictures," cut in Susan, flaring into instant +wrath. "He HAS to paint pictures in order to get money to live, don't +he? Well, then, let him paint. He's an artist--an extinguished artist +--not just a common storekeeper." (Mr. McGuire, it might be mentioned +in passing, kept a grocery store.) "An' if you're artistical, you're +different from other folks. You have to be." + +"Nonsense, Susan! That's all bosh, an' you know it. What if he does +paint pictures? That hadn't ought to hinder him from takin' proper +care of his own son, had it?" + +"Yes, if he's blind." Susan spoke with firmness and decision. "You +don't seem to understand at all, Mis' McGuire. Mr. Burton is an +artist. Artists like flowers an' sunsets an' clouds an' brooks. They +don't like disagreeable things. They don't want to see 'em or think +about 'em. I know. It's that way with Mr. Burton. Before, when Keith +was all right, he couldn't bear him out of his sight, an' he was goin' +to have him do such big, fine, splendid things when he grew up. Now, +since he's blind, he can't bear him IN his sight. He feels that bad. +He just won't be with him if he can help it. But he ain't forgettin' +him. He's thinkin' of him all the time. _I_ KNOW. An' it's tellin' on +him. He's lookin' thin an' bad an' sick. You see, he's so +disappointed, when he'd counted on such big things for that boy!" + +"Humph! Well, I'll risk HIM. It's Keith I'm worry in' about. Who is +going to take care of him?" + +Susan Betts frowned. + +"Well, _I_ could, I think. But there's a sister of Mr. Burton's--she's +comin'." + +"Not Nettie Colebrook?" + +"Yes, Mis' Colebrook. That's her name. She's a widow, an' hain't got +anything needin' her. She wrote an' offered, an' Mr. Burton said yes, +if she'd be so kind. An' she's comin'." + +"When?" + +"Next week. The day the nurse goes. Why? What makes you look so queer? +Do you know--Mis' Colebrook?" + +"Know Nettie Burton Colebrook? Well, I should say I did! I went to +boardin'-school with her." + +"Humph!" Susan threw a sharp glance into Mrs. McGuire's face. Susan +looked as if she wanted to ask another question. But she did not ask +it. "Humph!" she grunted again; and turned back to the sheet she was +hanging on the line. + +There was a brief pause, then Mrs. McGuire commented dryly: + +"I notice you ain't doin' no rhymin' to-day, Susan." + +"Ain't I? Well, perhaps I ain't. Some way, they don't come out now so +natural an' easy-like." + +"What's the matter? Ain't the machine workin'?" + +Susan shook her head. Then she drew a long sigh. Picking up her empty +basket she looked at it somberly. + +"Not the way it did before. Some way, there don't seem anything inside +of me now only dirges an' funeral marches. Everywhere, all day, +everything I do an' everywhere I go I jest hear: 'Keith's blind, +Keith's blind!' till it seems as if I jest couldn't bear it." + +With something very like a sob Susan turned and hurried into the +house. + + + + +CHAPTER VII + +SUSAN TO THE RESCUE + + +It was when the nurse was resting and Susan was with Keith that the +boy came to a full, realizing sense of himself, on his lips the time- +worn question asked by countless other minds back from that mysterious +land of delirium: + +"Where am I?" + +Susan sprang to her feet, then dropped on her knees at the bedside. + +"In your own bed--honey." + +"Is that--Susan?" No wonder he asked the question. Whenever before had +Susan talked like that? + +"Sure it's Susan." + +"But I can't--see you--or anything. Oh-h!" With a shudder and a +quivering cry the boy flung out his hands, then covered his eyes with +them. "I know, now, I know! It's come--it's come! I am--BLIND!" + +"There, there, honey, don't, please don't. You'll break Susan's heart. +An' you're SO much better now." + +"Better?" + +"Yes. You've been sick--very sick." + +"How long?" + +"Oh, several weeks. It's October now." + +"And I've been blind all that time?" + +"Yes." + +"But I haven't known I was blind!" + +"No." + +"I want to go back--I want to go back, where I didn't know--again." + +"Nonsense, Keith!" (Susan was beginning to talk more like herself.) +"Go back to be sick? Of course you don't want to go back an' be sick! +Listen! + + Don't you worry, an' don't you fret. + Somethin' better is comin' yet. + Somethin' fine! What'll you bet? + It's jest the thing you're wantin' ter get! + +Come, come! We're goin' to have you up an' out in no time, now, boy!" + +"I don't want to be up and out. I'm blind, Susan." + +"An' there's your dad. He'll be mighty glad to know you're better. +I'll call him." + +"No, no, Susan--don't! Don't call him. He won't want to see me. Nobody +will want to see me now. I'm blind, Susan--blind!" + +"Shucks! Everybody will want to see you, so's to see how splendid you +are, even if you are blind. Now don't talk any more--please don't; +there's a good boy. You're gettin' yourself all worked up, an' then, +oh, my, how that nurse will scold!" + +"I shan't be splendid," moaned the boy. "I shan't be anything, now. I +shan't be Jerry or Ned or dad. I shall be just ME. And I'll be pointed +at everywhere; and they'll whisper and look and stare, and say, 'He's +blind--he's blind--he's blind.' I tell you, Susan, I can't stand it. I +can't--I can't! I want to go back. I want to go back to where I +didn't--KNOW!" + +The nurse came in then, and of course Susan was banished in disgrace. +Of course, too, Keith was almost in hysterics, and his fever had gone +away up again. He still talked in a high, shrill voice, and still +thrashed his arms wildly about, till the little white powder the nurse +gave him got in its blessed work. And then he slept. + +Keith was entirely conscious the next day when Susan came in to sit +with him while the nurse took her rest. But it was a very different +Keith. It was a weary, spent, nerveless Keith that lay back on the +pillow with scarcely so much as the flutter of an eyelid to show life. + +"Is there anything I can get you, Keith?" she asked, when a long-drawn +sigh convinced her that he was awake. + +Only a faint shake of the head answered her. + +"The doctor says you're lots better, Keith." + +There was no sort of reply to this; and for another long minute Susan +sat tense and motionless, watching the boy's face. Then, with almost a +guilty look over her shoulder, she stammered: + +"Keith, I don't want you to talk to me, but I do wish you'd just SPEAK +to me." + +But Keith only shook his head again faintly and turned his face away +to the wall. + +By and by the nurse came in, and Susan left the room. She went +straight to the kitchen, and she did not so much as look toward +Keith's father whom she met in the hall. In the kitchen Susan caught +up a cloth and vigorously began to polish a brass faucet. The faucet +was already a marvel of brightness; but perhaps Susan could not see +that. One cannot always see clearly--through tears. + +Keith was like this every day after that, when Susan came in to sit +with him--silent, listless, seemingly devoid of life. Yet the doctor +declared that physically the boy was practically well. And the nurse +was going at the end of the week. + +On the last day of the nurse's stay, Susan accosted her in the hall +somewhat abruptly. + +"Is it true that by an' by there could be an operator on that boy's +eyes?" + +"Oper--er--oh, operation! Yes, there might be, if he could only get +strong enough to stand it. But it might not be successful, even then." + +"But there's a chance?" + +"Yes, there's a chance." + +"I s'pose it--it would be mighty expulsive, though." + +"Expulsive?" The young woman frowned slightly; then suddenly she +smiled. "Oh! Oh, yes, I--I'm afraid it would--er--cost a good deal of +money," she nodded over her shoulder as she went on into Keith's room. + +That evening Susan sought her employer in the studio. Daniel Burton +spent all his waking hours in the studio now. The woods and fields +were nothing but a barren desert of loneliness to Daniel Burton-- +without Keith. + +The very poise of Susan's head spelt aggressive determination as she +entered the studio; and Daniel Burton shifted uneasily in his chair as +he faced her. Nor did he fail to note that she carried some folded +papers in her hand. + +"Yes, yes, Susan, I know. Those bills are due, and past due," he cried +nervously, before Susan could speak. "And I hoped to have the money, +both for them and for your wages, long before this. But---" + +Susan stopped him short with an imperative gesture. + +"T ain't bills, Mr. Burton, an't ain't wages. It's--it's somethin' +else. Somethin' very importune." There was a subdued excitement in +Susan's face and manner that was puzzling, yet most promising. + +Unconsciously Daniel Burton sat a little straighter and lifted his +chin--though his eyes were smiling. + +"Something else?" + +"Yes. It's--poetry." + +"Oh, SUSAN!" It was as if a bubble had been pricked, leaving nothing +but empty air. + +"But you don't know--you don't understand, yet," pleaded Susan, +unerringly reading the disappointment in her employer's face. "It's to +sell--to get some money, you know, for the operator on the poor lamb's +eyes. I--I wanted to help, some way. An' this is REAL poetry--truly it +is!--not the immaculate kind that I jest dash off! I've worked an' +worked over this, an' I'm jest sure it'll sell, It's GOT to sell, Mr. +Burton. We've jest got to have that money. An' now, I--I want to read +'em to you. Can't I, please?" + +And this from Susan--this palpitating, pleading "please"! Daniel +Burton, with a helpless gesture that expressed embarrassment, dismay, +bewilderment, and resignation, threw up both hands and settled back in +his chair. + +"Why, of--of course, Susan, read them," he muttered as clearly as he +could, considering the tightness that had come into his throat. + +And Susan read this: + + SPRING + + Oh, gentle Spring, I love thy rills, + I love thy wooden, rocky rills, + I love thy budsome beauty. + But, oh, I hate o'er anything, + Thy mud an' slush, oh, gentle Spring, + When rubbers are a duty. + +"That's the shortest--the other is longer," explained Susan, still the +extraordinary, palpitating Susan, with the shining, pleading eyes. + +"Yes, go on." Daniel Burton had to clear his throat before he could +say even those two short words. + +"I called this 'Them Things That Plague,'" said Susan. "An' it's +really true, too. Don't you know? Things DO plague worse nights, when +you can't sleep. An' you get to thinkin' an' thinkin'. Well, that's +what made me write this." And she began to read: + + THEM THINGS THAT PLAGUE + + They come at night, them things that plague, + An' gather round my bed. + They cluster thick about the foot, + An' lean on top the head. + + They like the dark, them things that plague, + For then they can be great, + They loom like doom from out the gloom, + An' shriek: "I am your Fate!" + + But, after all, them things that plague + Are cowards--Say not you?-- + To strike a man when he is down, + An' in the darkness, too. + + For if you'll watch them things that plague, + Till comin' of the dawn, + You'll find, when once you're on your feet, + Them things that plague--are gone! + +"There, ain't that true--every word of it?" she demanded. "An' there +ain't hardly any poem license in it, too. I think they're a ways lots +better when there ain't; but sometimes, of course, you jest have to +use it. There! an' now I've read 'em both to you--an' how much do you +s'pose I can get for 'em--the two of 'em, either singly or doubly?" +Susan was still breathless, still shining-eyed--a strange, exotic +Susan, that Daniel Burton had never seen before. "I've heard that +writers--some writers--get lots of money, Mr. Burton, an' I can write +more--lots more. Why, when I get to goin' they jest come +autocratically--poems do--without any thinkin' at all; an'--But how +much DO you think I ought to get?" + +"Get? Good Heavens woman!" Daniel Burton was on his feet now trying to +shake off the conflicting emotions that were all but paralyzing him. +"Why, you can't get anything for those da---" Just in time he pulled +himself up. At that moment, too, he saw Susan's face. He sat down +limply. + +"Susan." He cleared his throat and began again. He tried to speak +clearly, judiciously, kindly. "Susan, I'm afraid--that is, I'm not +sure--Oh, hang it all, woman"--he was on his feet now--"send them, if +you want to--but don't blame me for the consequences." And with a +gesture, as of flinging the whole thing far from him, he turned his +back and walked away. + +"You mean--you don't think I can get hardly anything for 'em?" An +extraordinarily meek, fearful Susan asked the question. + +Only a shrug of the back-turned shoulders answered her. + +"But, Mr. Burton, we--we've got to have the money for that operator; +an', anyhow, I--I mean to try." With a quick indrawing of her breath +she turned abruptly and left the studio. + +That evening, in her own room, Susan pored over the two inexpensive +magazines that came to the house. She was searching for poems and for +addresses. + +As she worked she began to look more cheerful. Both the magazines +published poems, and if they published one poem they would another, of +course, especially if the poem were a better one--and Susan could not +help feeling that they were better (those poems of hers) than almost +any she saw there in print before her. There was some SENSE to her +poems, while those others--why, some of them didn't mean anything, not +anything!--and they didn't even rhyme! + +With real hope and courage, therefore, Susan laboriously copied off +the addresses of the two magazines, directed two envelopes, and set +herself to writing the first of her two letters. That done, she copied +the letter, word for word--except for the title of the poem submitted. + +It was a long letter. Susan told first of Keith and his misfortune, +and the imperative need of money for the operation. Then she told +something of herself, and of her habit of turning everything into +rhyme; for she felt it due to them, she said, that they know something +of the person with whom they were dealing. She touched again on the +poverty of the household, and let it plainly be seen that she had high +hopes of the money these poems were going to bring. She did not set a +price. She would leave that to their own indiscretion, she said in +closing. + +It was midnight before Susan had copied this letter and prepared the +two manuscripts for mailing. Then, tired, but happy, she went to bed. + +It was the next day that the nurse went, and that Mrs. Colebrook came. + +The doctor said that Keith might be dressed now, any day--that he +should be dressed, in fact, and begin to take some exercise. He had +already sat up in a chair every day for a week--and he was in no +further need of medicine, except a tonic to build him up. In fact, all +efforts now should be turned toward building him up, the doctor said. +That was what he needed. + +All this the nurse mentioned to Mr. Burton and to Susan, as she was +leaving. She went away at two o'clock, and Mrs. Colebrook was not to +come until half-past five. At one minute past two Susan crept to the +door of Keith's room and pushed it open softly. The boy, his face to +the wall, lay motionless. But he was not asleep. Susan knew that, for +she had heard his voice not five minutes before, bidding the nurse +good-bye. For one brief moment Susan hesitated. Then, briskly, she +stepped into the room with a cheery: + +"Well, Keith, here we are, just ourselves together. The nurse is gone +an' I am on--how do you like the weather?" + +"Yes, I know, she said she was going." The boy spoke listlessly, +wearily, without turning his head. + +"What do you say to gettin' up?" + +Keith stirred restlessly. + +"I was up this morning." + +"Ho!" Susan tossed her head disdainfully. "I don't mean THAT way. I +mean up--really up with your clothes on." + +The boy shook his head again. + +"I couldn't. I--I'm too tired." + +"Nonsense! A great boy like you bein' too tired to get up! Why Keith, +it'll do you good. You'll feel lots better when you're up an' dressed +like folks again." + +The boy gave a sudden cry. + +"That's just it, Susan. Don't you see? I'll never be--like folks +again." + +"Nonsense! Jest as if a little thing like bein' blind was goin' to +keep you from bein' like folks again!" Susan was speaking very loudly, +very cheerfully--though with first one hand, then the other, she was +brushing away the hot tears that were rolling down her cheeks. "Why, +Keith, you're goin' to be better than folks--jest common folks. You're +goin' to do the most wonderful things that---" + +"But I can't--I'm blind, I tell you!" cut in the boy. "I can't do-- +anything, now." + +"But you can, an' you're goin' to," insisted Susan again. "You jest +wait till I tell you; an' it's because you ARE blind that it's goin' +to be so wonderful. But you can't do it jest lyin' abed there in that +lazy fashion. Come, I'm goin' to get your clothes an' put 'em right on +this chair here by the bed; then I'm goin' to give you twenty minutes +to get into 'em. I shan't give you but fifteen tomorrow." Susan was +moving swiftly around the room now, opening closet doors and bureau +drawers. + +"No, no, Susan, I can't get up," moaned the boy turning his face back +to the wall. "I can't--I can't!" + +"Yes, you can. Now, listen. They're all here, everything you need, on +these two chairs by the bed." + +"But how can I dress me when I can't see a thing?" + +"You can feel, can't you?" + +"Y-yes. But feeling isn't seeing. You don't KNOW." + +Susan gave a sudden laugh--she would have told you it was a laugh--but +it sounded more like a sob. + +"But I do know, an' that's the funny part of it, Keith," she cried. +"Listen! What do you s'pose your poor old Susan's been doin'? You'd +never guess in a million years, so I'm goin' to tell you. For the last +three mornin's she's tied up her eyes with a handkerchief an' then +DRESSED herself, jest to make sure it COULD be done, you know." + +"Susan, did you, really?" For the first time a faint trace of interest +came into the boy's face. + +"Sure I did! An' Keith, it was great fun, really, jest to see how +smart I could be, doin' it. An' I timed myself, too. It took me +twenty-five minutes the first time. Dear, dear, but I was clumsy! But +I can do it lots quicker now, though I don't believe I'll ever do it +as quick as you will." + +"Do you think I could do it, really?" + +"I know you could." + +"I could try," faltered Keith dubiously. + +"You ain't goin' to TRY, you're goin' to DO it," declared Susan. "Now, +listen. I'm goin' out, but in jest twenty minutes I'm comin' back, an' +I shall expect to find you all dressed. I--I shall be ashamed of you +if you ain't." And without another glance at the boy, and before he +could possibly protest, Susan hurried from the room. + +Her head was still high, and her voice still determinedly clear--but +in the hall outside the bedroom, Susan burst into such a storm of sobs +that she had to hurry to the kitchen and shut herself in the pantry +lest they be heard. + +Later, when she had scornfully lashed herself into calmness, she came +out into the kitchen and looked at the clock. + +"An' I've been in there five minutes, I'll bet ye, over that fool cry +in'," she stormed hotly to herself. "Great one, I am, to take care of +that boy, if I can't control myself better than this!" + +At the end of what she deemed to be twenty minutes, and after a +fruitless "puttering" about the kitchen, Susan marched determinedly +upstairs to Keith's room. At the door she did hesitate a breathless +minute, then, resolutely, she pushed it open. + +The boy, fully dressed, stood by the bed. His face was alight, almost +eager. + +"I did it--I did it, Susan! And if it hasn't been more than twenty +minutes, I did it sooner than you!" + +Susan tried to speak; but the tears were again chasing each other down +her cheeks, and her face was working with emotion. + +"Susan!" The boy put out his hand gropingly, turning his head with the +pitiful uncertainty of the blind. "Susan, you are there, aren't you?" + +Susan caught her breath chokingly, and strode into the room with a +brisk clatter. + +"Here? Sure I'm here--but so dumb with amazement an' admiration that I +couldn't open my head--to see you standin' there all dressed like +that! What did I tell you? I knew you could do it. Now, come, let's go +see dad." She was at his side now, her arm linked into his. + +But the boy drew back. + +"No, no, Susan, not there. He--he wouldn't like it. Truly, he--he +doesn't want to see me. You know he--he doesn't like to see +disagreeable things." + +"'Disagreeable things,' indeed!" exploded Susan, her features working +again. "Well, I guess if he calls it disagreeable to see his son +dressed up an' walkin' around--" + +But Keith interrupted her once more, with an even stronger protest, +and Susan was forced to content herself with leading her charge out on +to the broad veranda that ran across the entire front of the house. +There they walked back and forth, back and forth. + +She was glad, afterward, that this was all she did, for at the far end +of the veranda Daniel Burton stepped out from a door, and stood for a +moment watching them. But it was for only a moment. And when she +begged mutely for him to come forward and speak, he shook his head +fiercely, covered his eyes with his hand, and plunged back into the +house. + +"What was that, Susan? What was that?" demanded the boy. + +"Nothin', child, nothin', only a door shuttin' somewhere, or a +window." + +At that moment a girl's voice caroled shrilly from the street. + +"Hullo, Keith, how do you do? We're awfully glad to see you out +again." + +The boy started violently, but did not turn his head--except to Susan. + +"Susan, I--I'm tired. I want to go in now," he begged a little wildly, +under his breath. + +"Keith, it's Mazie--Mazie and Dorothy," caroled the high-pitched voice +again. + +But Keith, with a tug so imperative that Susan had no choice but to +obey, turned his head quite away as he groped for the door to go in. + +In the hall he drew a choking breath. + +"Susan, I don't want to go out there to walk any more--NOT ANY MORE! I +don't want to go anywhere where anybody'll see me." + +"Shucks!" Susan's voice was harshly unsteady again. "See you, indeed! +Why, we're goin' to be so proud of you we'll want the whole world to +see you. + + You jest wait + An' see the fate + That I've cut out for you. + We'll be so proud + We'll laugh aloud, + An' you'll be laughin', too! + +I made that up last night when I laid awake thinkin' of all the fine +things we was goin' to have you do." + +But Keith only shook his head again and complained of feeling, oh, so +tired. And Susan, looking at his pale, constrained face, did not quote +any more poetry to him, or talk about the glorious future in store for +him. She led him to the easiest chair in his room and made him as +comfortable as she could. Then she went downstairs and shut herself in +the pantry--until she could stop her "fool cryin' over nothin'." + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +AUNT NETTIE MEETS HER MATCH + + +Mrs. Nettie Colebrook came at half-past five. She was a small, +nervous-looking woman with pale-blue eyes and pale-yellow hair. She +greeted her brother with a burst of tears. + +"Oh, Daniel, Daniel, how can you stand it--how can you stand it!" she +cried, throwing herself upon the man's somewhat unresponsive shoulder. + +"There, there, Nettie, control yourself, do!" besought the man +uncomfortably, trying to withdraw himself from the clinging arms. + +"But how CAN you stand it!--your only son--blind!" wailed Mrs. +Colebrook, with a fresh burst of sobs. + +"I notice some things have to be stood," observed Susan grimly. Susan, +with Mrs. Colebrook's traveling-bag in her hand, was waiting with +obvious impatience to escort her visitor upstairs to her room. + +Susan's terse comment accomplished what Daniel Burton's admonition had +been quite powerless to bring about. Mrs. Colebrook stopped sobbing at +once, and drew herself somewhat haughtily erect. + +"And, pray, who is this?" she demanded, looking from one to the other. + +"Well, 'this' happens to be the hired girl, an' she's got some +biscuits in the oven," explained Susan crisply. "If you'll be so good, +ma'am, I'll show you upstairs to your room." + +"Daniel!" appealed Mrs. Colebrook, plainly aghast. + +But her brother, with a helpless gesture, had turned away, and Susan, +bag in hand, was already halfway up the stairs. With heightened color +and a muttered "Impertinence!" Mrs. Colebrook turned and followed +Susan to the floor above. + +A little way down the hall Susan threw open a door. + +"I swept, but I didn't have no time to dust," she announced as she put +down the bag. "There's a duster in that little bag there. Don't lock +the door. Somethin' ails it. If you do you'll have to go out the +window down a ladder. There's towels in the top drawer, an' you'll +have to fill the pitcher every day, 'cause there's a crack an' it +leaks, an' you can't put in the water only to where the crack is. Is +there anything more you want?" + +"Thank you. If you'll kindly take me to Master Keith's room, that will +be all that I require," answered Mrs. Colebrook frigidly, as she +unpinned her hat and laid that on top of her coat on the bed. + +"All right, ma'am. He's a whole lot better. He's been up an' dressed +to-day, but he's gone back to bed now. His room is right down here, +jest across the hall," finished Susan, throwing wide the door. + +There was a choking cry, a swift rush of feet, then Mrs. Colebrook, on +her knees, was sobbing at the bedside. + +"Oh, Keithie, Keithie, my poor blind boy! What will you do? How will +you ever live? Never to see again, never to see again! Oh, my poor +boy, my poor blind boy!" + +Susan, at the door, flung both hands above her head, then plunged down +the stairs. + +"Fool! FOOL! FOOL!" she snarled at the biscuits in the oven. "Don't +you know ANYTHING?" Yet the biscuits in the oven were puffing up and +browning beautifully, as the best of biscuits should. + +When Susan's strident call for supper rang through the hall, Mrs. +Colebrook was with her brother in the studio. She had been bemoaning +and bewailing the cruel fate that had overtaken "that dear boy," and +had just asked for the seventh time how he could stand it, when from +the hall below came: + + "Supper's ready, supper's ready, + Hurry up or you'll be late. + Then you'll sure be cross an' heady, + If there's nothin' left to ate." + +"Daniel, what in the world is the meaning of that?" she interrupted +sharply. + +"That? Oh, that is Susan's--er--supper bell," shrugged the man, with a +little uneasy gesture. + +"You mean that you've heard it before?--that that is her usual method +of summoning you to your meals?" + +"Y-yes, when she's good-natured," returned the man, with a still more +uneasy shifting of his position. "Come, shall we go down?" + +"DANIEL! And you stand it?" + +"Oh, come, come! You don't understand--conditions here. Besides, I've +tried to stop it." + +"TRIED to stop it!" + +"Yes. Oh, well, try yourself, if you think it's so easy. I give you my +full and free permission. Try it." + +"TRY it! I shan't TRY anything of the sort. I shall STOP it." + +"Humph!" shrugged the man. "Oh, very well, then. Suppose we go down." + +"But what does that poor little blind boy eat? How can he eat-- +anything?" + +"Why, I--I don't know." The man gave an irritably helpless gesture. +"The nurse--she used to--You'll have to ask Susan. She'll know." + +"Susan! That impossible woman! Daniel, how DO you stand her?" + +Daniel Burton shrugged his shoulders again. Then suddenly he gave a +short, grim laugh. + +"I notice there are some things that have to be stood," he observed, +so exactly in imitation of Susan that it was a pity only Mrs. Nettie +Colebrook's unappreciative ears got the benefit of it. + +In the dining-room a disapproving Susan stood by the table. + +"I thought you wasn't never comin'. The hash is gettin' cold." + +Mrs. Colebrook gasped audibly. + +"Yes, yes, I know," murmured Mr. Burton conciliatingly. "But we're +here now, Susan." + +"What will Master Keith have for his supper?" questioned Mrs. +Colebrook, lifting her chin a little. + +"He's already had his supper, ma'am. I took it up myself." + +"What was it?" Mrs. Colebrook asked the question haughtily, +imperiously. + +Susan's eyes grew cold like steel. + +"It was what he asked for, ma'am, an' he's ate it. Do you want your +tea strong or weak, ma'am?" + +Mrs. Colebrook bit her lip. + +"I'll not take any tea at all," she said coldly. "And, Susan!" + +"Yes, ma'am." Susan turned, her hand on the doorknob. + +"Hereafter I will take up Master Keith's meals myself. He is in my +charge now." + +There was no reply--in words. But the dining-room door after Susan +shut with a short, crisp snap. + +After supper Mrs. Colebrook went out into the kitchen. + +"You may prepare oatmeal and dry toast and a glass of milk for Master +Keith to-morrow morning, Susan. I will take them up myself." + +"He won't eat 'em. He don't like 'em--not none of them things." + +"I think he will if I tell him to. At all events, they are what he +should eat, and you may prepare them as I said." + +"Very well, ma'am." + +Susan's lips came together in a thin, white line, and Mrs. Colebrook +left the kitchen. + +Keith did not eat his toast and oatmeal the next morning, though his +aunt sat on the edge of the bed, called him her poor, afflicted, +darling boy, and attempted to feed him herself with a spoon. + +Keith turned his face to the wall and said he didn't want any +breakfast. Whereupon his aunt sighed, and stroked his head; and Keith +hated to have his head stroked, as Susan could have told her. + +"Of course, you don't want any breakfast, you poor, sightless lamb," +she moaned. "And I don't blame you. Oh, Keithie, Keithie, when I see +you lying there like that, with your poor useless eyes--! But you must +eat, dear, you must eat. Now, come, just a weeny, teeny mouthful to +please auntie!" + +But Keith turned his face even more determinedly to the wall, and +moved his limbs under the bed clothes in a motion very much like a +kick. He would have nothing whatever to do with the "weeny, teeny +mouthfuls," not even to please auntie. And after a vain attempt to +remove his tortured head, entirely away from those gently stroking +ringers, he said he guessed he would get up and be dressed. + +"Oh, Keithie, are you well enough, dear? Are you sure you are strong +enough? I'm sure you must be ill this morning. You haven't eaten a bit +of breakfast. And if anything should happen to you when you were in MY +care--" + +"Of course I'm well enough," insisted the boy irritably. + +"Then I'll get your clothes, dear, and help you dress, if you will be +careful not to overdo." + +"I don't want any help." + +"Why, Keithie, you'll HAVE to have some one help you. How do you +suppose your poor blind eyes are going to let you dress yourself all +alone, when you can't see a thing? Why, dear child, you'll have to +have help now about everything you do. Now I'll get your clothes. +Where are they, dear? In this closet?" + +"I don't know. I don't want 'em. I--I've decided I don't want to get +up, after all." + +"You ARE too tired, then?" + +"Yes, I'm too tired." And Keith, with another spasmodic jerk under the +bedclothes, turned his face to the wall again. + +"All right, dear, you shan't. That's the better way, I think myself," +sighed his aunt. "I wouldn't have you overtax yourself for the world. +Now isn't there anything, ANYTHING I can do for you?" + +And Keith said no, not a thing, not a single thing. And his face was +still to the wall. + +"Then if you're all right, absolutely all right, I'll go out to walk +and get a little fresh air. Now don't move. Don't stir. TRY to go to +sleep if you can. And if you want anything, just ring. I'll put this +little bell right by your hand on the bed; and you must ring if you +want anything, ANYTHING. Then Susan will come and get it for you. +There, the bell's right here. See? Oh, no, no, you CAN'T see!" she +broke off suddenly, with a wailing sob. "Why will I keep talking to +you as if you could?" + +"Well, I wish you WOULD talk to me as if I could see," stormed Keith +passionately, sitting upright in bed and flinging out his arms. "I +tell you I don't want to be different! It's because I AM different +that I am so---" + +But his aunt, aghast, interrupted him, and pushed him back. + +"Oh, Keithie, darling, lie down! You mustn't thrash yourself around +like that," she remonstrated. "Why, you'll make yourself ill. There, +that's better. Now go to sleep. I'm going out before you can talk any +more, and get yourself all worked up again," she finished, hurrying +out of the room with the breakfast tray. + +A little later in the kitchen she faced Susan a bit haughtily. + +"Master Keith is going to sleep," she said, putting down the breakfast +tray. "I have left a bell within reach of his hand, and he will call +you if he wants anything. I am going out to get a little air." + +"All right, ma'am." Susan kept right on with the dish she was drying. + +"You are sure you can hear the bell?" + +"Oh, yes, my hearin' ain't repaired in the least, ma'am." Susan turned +her back and picked up another dish. Plainly, for Susan, the matter +was closed. + +Mrs. Colebrook, after a vexed biting of her lip and a frowning glance +toward Susan's substantial back, shrugged her shoulders and left the +kitchen. A minute later, still hatless, she crossed the yard and +entered the McGuires' side door. + +"Take the air, indeed!" muttered Susan, watching from the kitchen +window. "A whole lot of fresh air she'll get in Mis' McGuire's +kitchen!" + +With another glance to make sure that Mrs. Nettie Colebrook was safely +behind the McGuires' closed door, Susan crossed the kitchen and lifted +the napkin of the breakfast tray. + +"Humph!" she grunted angrily, surveying the almost untouched +breakfast. "I thought as much! But I was ready for you, my lady. Toast +an' oatmeal, indeed!" With another glance over her shoulder at the +McGuire side door Susan strode to the stove and took from the oven a +plate of crisply browned hash and a hot corn muffin. Two minutes +later, with a wonderfully appetizing-looking tray, she tapped at +Keith's door and entered the room. + +"Here's your breakfast, boy," she announced cheerily. + +"I didn't want any breakfast," came crossly from the bed. + +"Of course you didn't want THAT breakfast," scoffed Susan airily; "but +you just look an' see what I'VE brought you!" + +Look and see! Susan's dismayed face showed that she fully realized +what she had said, and that she dreaded beyond words its effect on the +blind boy in the bed. + +She hesitated, and almost dropped the tray in her consternation. But +the boy turned with a sudden eagerness that put to rout her dismay, +and sent a glow of dazed wonder to her face instead. + +"What HAVE you got? Let me see." He was sitting up now. "Hash--and-- +johnny-cake!" he crowed, as she set the tray before him, and he +dropped his fingers lightly on the contents of the tray. "And don't +they smell good! I don't know--I guess I am hungry, after all." + +"Of course you're hungry!" Susan's voice was harsh, and she was +fiercely brushing back the tears. "Now, eat it quick, or I'll be sick! +Jest think what'll happen to Susan if that blessed aunt of yours comes +an' finds me feedin' you red-flannel hash an' johnny-cake! Now I'll be +up in ten minutes for the tray. See that you eat it up--every scrap," +she admonished him, as she left the room. + +Susan had found by experience that Keith ate much better when alone. +She was not surprised, therefore, though she was very much pleased--at +sight of the empty plates awaiting her when she went up for the tray +at the end of the ten minutes. + +"An' now what do you say to gettin' up?" she suggested cheerily, +picking up the tray from the bed and setting it on the table. + +"Can I dress myself?" + +"Of course you can! What'll you bet you won't do it five minutes +quicker this time, too? I'll get your clothes." + +Halfway back across the room, clothes in hand, she was brought to a +sudden halt by a peremptory: "What in the world is the meaning of +this?" It was Mrs. Nettie Colebrook in the doorway. + +"I'm gettin' Keith's clothes. He's goin' to get up." + +"But MASTER Keith said he did not wish to get up." + +"Changed his mind, maybe." The terseness of Susan's reply and the +expression on her face showed that the emphasis on the "Master" was +not lost upon her. + +"Very well, then, that will do. You may go. I will help him dress." + +"I don't want any help," declared Keith. + +"Why, Keithie, darling, of course you want help! You forget, dear, you +can't see now, and--" + +"Oh, no, I don't forget," cut in Keith bitterly. "You don't let me +forget a minute--not a minute. I don't want to get up now, anyhow. +What's the use of gettin' up? I can't DO anything!" And he fell back +to his old position, with his face to the wall. + +"There, there, dear, you are ill and overwrought," cried Mrs. +Colebrook, hastening to the bedside. "It is just as I said, you are +not fit to get up." Then, to Susan, sharply: "You may put Master +Keith's clothes back in the closet. He will not need them to-day." + +"No, ma'am, I don't think he will need them--now." Susan's eyes +flashed ominously. But she hung the clothes back in the closet, picked +up the tray, and left the room. + +Susan's eyes flashed ominously, indeed, all the rest of the morning, +while she was about her work; and at noon, when she gave the call to +dinner, there was a curious metallic incisiveness in her voice, which +made the call more strident than usual. + +It was when Mrs. Colebrook went into the kitchen after dinner for +Keith's tray that she said coldly to Susan: + +"Susan, I don't like that absurd doggerel of yours." + +"Doggerel?" Plainly Susan was genuinely ignorant of what she meant. + +"Yes, that extraordinary dinner call of yours. As I said before, I +don't like it." + +There was a moment's dead silence. The first angry flash in Susan's +eyes was followed by a demure smile. + +"Don't you? Why, I thought it was real cute, now." + +"Well, I don't. You'll kindly not use it any more, Susan," replied +Mrs. Colebrook, with dignity. + +Once again there was the briefest of silences, then quietly came +Susan's answer: + +"Oh, no, of course not, ma'am. I won't--when I work for you. There, +Mis' Colebrook, here's your tray all ready." + +And Mrs. Colebrook, without knowing exactly how it happened, found +herself out in the hall with the tray in her hands. + + + + +CHAPTER IX + +SUSAN SPEAKS HER MIND + + +"How's Keith?" + +It was Monday morning, and as usual Mrs. McGuire, seeing Susan in the +clothes-yard, had come out, ostensibly to hang out her own clothes, in +reality to visit with Susan while she was hanging out hers. + +"About as usual." Susan snapped out the words and a pillow-case with +equal vehemence. + +"Is he up an' dressed?" + +"I don't know. I hain't seen him this mornin'--but it's safe to say he +ain't." + +"But I thought he was well enough to be up an' dressed right along +now." + +"He is WELL ENOUGH--or, rather he WAS." Susan snapped open another +pillow-case and hung it on the line with spiteful jabs of two +clothespins. + +"Why, Susan, is he worse? You didn't say he was any worse. You said he +was about as usual." + +"Well, so he is. That's about as usual. Look a-here, Mis' McGuire," +flared Susan, turning with fierce suddenness, "wouldn't YOU be worse +if you wasn't allowed to do as much as lift your own hand to your own +head?" + +"Why, Susan, what do you mean? What are you talkin' about?" + +"I'm talkin' about Keith Burton an' Mis' Nettie Colebrook. I've GOT to +talk about 'em to somebody. I'm that full I shall sunburst if I don't. +She won't let him do a thing for himself--not a thing, that woman +won't!" + +"But how can he do anything for himself, with his poor sightless +eyes?" demanded Mrs. McGuire. "I don't think I should complain, Susan +Betts, because that poor boy's got somebody at last to take proper +care of him." + +"But it AIN'T takin' proper care of him, not to let him do things for +himself," stormed Susan hotly. "How's he ever goin' to 'mount to +anything--that's what I want to know--if he don't get a chance to +begin to 'mount? All them fellers--them fellers that was blind an' +wrote books an' give lecturin's an' made things--perfectly wonderful +things with their hands--how much do you s'pose they would have done +if they'd had a woman 'round who said, 'Here, let me do it; oh, you +mustn't do that, Keithie, dear!' every time they lifted a hand to +brush away a hair that was ticklin' their nose?" + +"Oh, Susan!" + +"Well, it's so. Look a-here, listen!" Susan dropped all pretense of +work now, and came close to the fence. She was obviously very much in +earnest. "That boy hain't been dressed but twice since that woman came +a week ago. She won't let him dress himself alone an' now he don't +want to be dressed. Says he's too tired. An' she says, 'Of course, +you're too tired, Keithie, dear!' An' there he lies, day in an' day +out, with his poor sightless eyes turned to the wall. He won't eat a +thing hardly, except what I snuggle up when she's out airin' herself. +He ain't keen on bein' fed with a spoon like a baby. No boy with any +spunk would be." + +"But can he feed himself?" + +"Of course he can--if he gets a chance! But that ain't all. He don't +want to be told all the time that he's different from other folks. He +can't forget that he's blind, of course, but he wants you to act as if +you forgot it. I know. I've seen him. But she don't forget it a +minute--not a minute. She's always cryin' an' wringin' her hands, an' +sighin', 'Oh, Keithie, Keithie, my poor boy, my poor blind boy!' till +it's enough to make a saint say, 'Gosh!'" + +"Well, that's only showin' sympathy, Susan," defended Mrs. McGuire. +"I'm sure she ought not to be blamed for that." + +"He don't want sympathy--or, if he does, he hadn't ought to have it." + +"Why, Susan Betts, I'm ashamed of you--grudgin' that poor blind boy +the comfort of a little sympathy! My John said yesterday--" + +"'T ain't sympathy he needs. Sympathy's a nice, soft little paw that +pats him to sleep. What he needs is a good sharp scratch that will +make him get up an' do somethin'." + +"Susan, how can you talk like that?" + +"'Cause somebody's got to." Susan's voice was shaking now. Her hands +were clenched so tightly on the fence pickets that the knuckles showed +white with the strain. "Mis' McGuire, there's a chance, maybe, that +that boy can see. There's somethin' they can do to his eyes, if he +gets strong enough to have it done." + +"Really? To see again?" + +"Maybe. There's a chance. They ain't sure. But they can't even TRY +till he gets well an' strong. An' how's he goin' to get well an' +strong lyin' on that bed, face to the wall? That's what I want to +know!" + +"Hm-m, I see," nodded Mrs. McGuire soberly. Then, with a sidewise +glance into Susan's face, she added: "But ain't that likely to cost-- +some money?" + +"Yes, 't is." Susan went back to her work abruptly. With stern +efficiency she shook out a heavy sheet and hung it up. Stooping, she +picked up another one. But she did not shake out this. With the same +curious abruptness that had characterized her movements a few moments +before, she dropped the sheet back into the basket and came close to +the fence again. "Mis' McGuire, won't you please let me take a copy of +them two women's magazines that you take? That is, they--they do print +poetry, don't they?" + +"Why, y-yes, Susan, I guess they do. Thinkin' of sendin' 'em some of +yours?" The question was asked in a derision that was entirely lost on +Susan. + +"Yes, to get some money." It was the breathless, palpitating Susan +that Daniel Burton had seen a week ago, and like Daniel Burton on that +occasion, Mrs. McGuire went down now in defeat before it. + +"To--to get some money?" she stammered. + +"Yes--for Keith's eyes, you know," panted Susan. "An' when I sell +these, I'm goin' to write more--lots more. Only I've got to find a +place, first, of course, to sell 'em. An' I did send 'em off last +week. But they was jest cheap magazines; an' they sent a letter all +printed sayin' as how they regretted very much they couldn't accept +'em. Like enough they didn't have money enough to pay much for 'em, +anyway; but of course they didn't say that right out in so many words. +But, as I said, they wasn't anything but cheap magazines, anyway. +That's why I want yours, jest to get the addressin's of, I mean. +THEY'RE first-class magazines, an' they'll pay me a good price, I'm +sure. They'll have to, to get 'em! Why, Mis' McGuire, I've got to have +the money. There ain't nobody but me TO get it. An' you don't s'pose +we're goin' to let that boy stay blind all his life, do you, jest for +the want of a little money?" + +'"A little money'! It'll cost a lot of money, an' you know it, Susan +Betts," cried Mrs. McGuire, stirred into sudden speech. "An' the idea +of you tryin' to EARN it writin' poetry. For that matter, the idea of +your earnin' it, anyway, even if you took your wages." + +"Oh, I'd take my wages in a minute, if--" Susan stopped short. Her +face had grown suddenly red. "That is, I--I think I'd rather take the +poetry money, anyway," she finished lamely. + +But Mrs. McGuire was not to be so easily deceived. + +"Poetry money, indeed!" she scoffed sternly. "Susan Betts, do you know +what I believe? I believe you don't GET any wages. I don't believe +that man pays you a red cent from one week's end to the other. Now +does he? You don't dare to answer!" + +Susan drew herself up haughtily. But her face was still very red. + +"Certainly I dare to answer, Mis' McGuire, but I don't care to. What +Mr. Burton pays me discerns him an' me an' I don't care to discourse +it in public. If you'll kindly lend me them magazines I asked you for +a minute ago, I'll be very much obliged, an' I'll try to retaliate in +the same way for you some time, if I have anything you want." + +"Oh, good lan', Susan Betts, if you ain't the beat of 'em!" ejaculated +Mrs. McGuire. "I'd like to shake you--though you don't deserve a +shakin', I'll admit. You deserve--well, never mind. I'll get the +magazines right away. That's the most I CAN do for you, I s'pose," she +flung over her shoulder, as she hurried into the house. + + + + +CHAPTER X + +AND NETTIE COLEBROOK SPEAKS HERS + + +Mrs. Colebrook had been a member of the Burton household a day less +than two weeks when she confronted her brother in the studio with this +terse statement: + +"Daniel, either Susan or I leave this house tomorrow morning. You can +choose between us." + +"Nonsense, Nettie, don't be a fool," frowned the man. "You know very +well that we need both you and Susan. Susan's a trial, I'll admit, in +a good many ways; but I'll wager you'd find it more of a trial to get +along without her, and try to do her work and yours, too." + +"Nobody thought of getting along without SOMEBODY," returned Mrs. +Colebrook, with some dignity. "I merely am asking you to dismiss Susan +and hire somebody else--that is, of course, if you wish me to stay. +Change maids, that's all." + +The man made an impatient gesture. + +"All, indeed! Very simple, the way you put it. But--see here, Nettie, +this thing you ask is utterly out of the question. You don't +understand matters at all." + +"You mean that you don't intend to dismiss Susan?" + +"Yes, if you will have it put that way--just that." + +"Very well. Since that is your decision I shall have to govern myself +accordingly, of course. I will see you in the morning to say good- +bye." And she turned coldly away. + +"What do you mean by that?" + +"Why, that I am going home, of course--since you think more of having +that impossible, outrageously impertinent servant girl here than you +do me." Mrs. Colebrook was nearing the door how. + +"Shucks! You know better than that! Come, come, if you're having any +trouble with Susan, settle it with the girl herself, won't you? Don't +come to me with it. You KNOW how I dislike anything like this." + +At the door Mrs. Colebrook turned back suddenly with aggressive +determination. + +"Yes, I do know. You dislike anything that's disagreeable. You always +have, from the time when you used to run upstairs to the attic and let +us make all the explanations to pa and ma when something got lost or +broken. But, see here, Daniel Burton, you've GOT to pay attention to +this. It's your son, and your house, and your maid. And you shall +listen to me." + +"Well, well, all right, go ahead," sighed the man despairingly, +throwing himself back in his chair. "What is the trouble? What is it +that Susan does that annoys you so?" + +"What does she do? What doesn't she do?" retorted Mrs. Colebrook, +dropping herself wearily into a chair facing her brother. "In the +first place, she's the most wretchedly impertinent creature I ever +dreamed of. It's always 'Keith' instead of 'Master Keith,' and I +expect every day it'll be 'Daniel' and 'Nettie' for you and me. She +shows no sort of respect or deference in her manner or language, and-- +well, what are you looking like that for?" she interrupted herself +aggrievedly. + +"I was only thinking--or rather I was TRYING to think of Susan--and +deference," murmured the man dryly. + +"Yes, that's exactly it," Mrs. Colebrook reproved him severely. +"You're laughing. You've always laughed, I suspect, at her outrageous +behavior, and that's why she's so impossible in every way. Why, Daniel +Burton, I've actually heard her refuse--REFUSE to serve you with +something to eat that you'd ordered." + +"Oh, well, well, what if she has? Very likely there was something we +had to eat up instead, to keep it from spoiling. Susan is very +economical, Nettie." + +"I dare say--at times, when it suits her to be so, especially if she +can assert her authority over you. Why, Daniel, she's a perfect tyrant +to you, and you know it. She not only tells you what to eat, but what +to wear, and when to wear it--your socks, your underclothes. Why, +Daniel, she actually bosses you!" + +"Yes, yes; well, never mind," shrugged the man, a bit irritably. +"We're talking about how she annoys YOU, not me, remember." + +"Well, don't you suppose it annoys me to see my own brother so +completely under the sway of this serving-maid? And such a maid! +Daniel, will you tell me where she gets those long words of hers that +she mixes up so absurdly?" + +Daniel Burton laughed. + +"Susan lived with Professor Hinkley for ten years before she came to +me. The Hinkleys never used words of one or two syllables when they +could find one of five or six that would do just as well. Susan loves +long words." + +"So I should judge. And those ridiculous rhymes of hers--did she learn +those, also, from Professor Hinkley?" queried Mrs. Colebrook. "And as +for that atrocious dinner-call of hers, it's a disgrace to any family +--a positive disgrace!" + +"Well, well, why don't you stop her doing it, then?" demanded Daniel +Burton, still more irritably. "Go to HER, not me. Tell her not to." + +"I have." + +The tone of her voice was so fraught with meaning that the man looked +up sharply. + +"Well?" + +"She said she wouldn't do it--when she worked for me." + +Daniel Burton gave a sudden chuckle. + +"I can imagine just how she'd say that," he murmured appreciatively. + +"Daniel Burton, are you actually going to abet that girl in her +wretched impertinence?" demanded Mrs. Colebrook angrily. "I tell you I +will not stand it! Something has got to be done. Why, she even tries +to interfere with the way I take care of your son--presumes to give me +counsel and advice on the subject, if you please. Dares to criticize +me--ME! Daniel Burton, I tell you I will not stand it. You MUST give +that woman her walking papers. Why, Daniel, I shall begin to think she +has hypnotized you--that you're actually afraid of her!" + +Was it the scorn in her voice? Or was it that Daniel Burton's +endurance had snapped at this last straw? Whatever it was, the man +leaped to his feet, threw back his shoulders, and thrust his hands +into his pockets. + +"Nettie, look here. Once for all let us settle this matter. I tell you +I cannot dismiss Susan; and I mean what I say when I use the words +'can not.' I literally CAN NOT. To begin with, she's the kindest- +hearted creature in the world, and she's been devotion itself all +these years since--since Keith and I have been alone. But even if I +could set that aside, there's something else I can't overlook. I--I +owe Susan considerable money." + +"You owe her--MONEY?" + +"Yes, her wages. She has not had them for some time. I must owe her +something like fifty or sixty dollars. You see, we--we have had some +very unusual and very heavy expenses, and I have overdrawn my annuity +--borrowed on it. Susan knew this and insisted on my letting her wages +go on, for the present. More than that, she has refused a better +position with higher wages--I know that. The pictures I had hoped to +sell--"He stopped, tried to go on, failed obviously to control his +voice; then turned away with a gesture more eloquent than any words +could have been. + +Mrs. Colebrook stared, frowned, and bit her lip. Nervously she tapped +her foot on the floor as she watched with annoyed eyes her brother +tramping up and down, up and down, the long, narrow room. Then +suddenly her face cleared. + +"Oh, well, that's easily remedied, after all." She sprang to her feet +and hurried from the room. Almost immediately she was back--a roll of +bills in her hand. "There, I thought I had enough money to do it," she +announced briskly as she came in. "Now, Daniel, I'LL pay Susan her +back wages." + +"Indeed you will not!" The man wheeled sharply, an angry red staining +his cheeks. + +"Oh, but Daniel, don't you see?--that'll simplify everything. She'll +be working for ME, then, and I--" + +"But I tell you I won't have--" interrupted the man, then stopped +short. Susan herself stood in the doorway. + +"I guess likely you was talkin' so loud you didn't hear me call you to +dinner," she was saying. "I've called you two times already. If you +want anything fit to eat you'd better come quick. It ain't gettin' any +fitter, waitin'." + +"Susan!" Before Susan could turn away, Mrs. Colebrook detained her +peremptorily." Mr. Burton tells me that he owes you for past wages. +Now--" + +"NETTIE!" warned the man sharply. + +But with a blithe "Nonsense, Daniel, let me manage this!" Mrs. +Colebrook turned again to Susan. The man, not unlike the little Daniel +of long ago who fled to the attic, shrugged his shoulders with a +gesture of utter irresponsibility, turned his back and walked to the +farther side of the room. + +"Susan," began Mrs. Colebrook again, still blithely, but with just a +shade of haughtiness, "my brother tells me your wages are past due; +that he owes you at least fifty dollars. Now I'm going to pay them for +him, Susan. In fact, I'm going to pay you sixty dollars, so as to be +sure to cover it. Will that be quite satisfactory?" + +Susan stared frankly. + +"You mean ME--take money from you, ma'am,--to pay my back wages?" she +asked. + +"Yes." + +"But--" Susan paused and threw a quick glance toward the broad back of +the man at the end of the room. Then she turned resolutely to Mrs. +Colebrook, her chin a little higher than usual. "Oh, no, thank you. I +ain't needin' the money, Mis' Colebrook, an' I'd ruther wait for Mr. +Burton, anyway," she finished cheerfully, as she turned to go. + +"Nonsense, Susan, of COURSE you need the money. Everybody can make use +of a little money, I guess. Surely, there's SOMETHING you want." + +With her hand almost on the doorknob Susan suddenly whisked about, her +face alight. + +"Oh, yes, yes, I forgot, Mis' Colebrook," she cried eagerly. "There is +somethin' I want; an' I'll take it, please, an' thank you kindly." + +"There, that's better," nodded Mrs. Colebrook. "And I've got it right +here, so you see you don't have to wait, even a minute," she smiled, +holding out the roll of bills. + +Still with the eager light on her face, Susan reached for the money. + +"Thank you, oh, thank you! An' it will go quite a ways, won't it?--for +Keith, I mean. The--" But with sudden sharpness Mrs. Colebrook +interrupted her. + +"Susan, how many times have I told you to speak of my nephew as +'Master Keith'? Furthermore, I shall have to remind you once more that +you are trying to interfere altogether too much in his care. In fact, +Susan, I may as well speak plainly. For some time past you have failed +to give satisfaction. You are paid in full now, I believe, with some +to spare, perhaps. You may work the week out. After that we shall no +longer require your services." + +The man at the end of the room wheeled sharply and half started to +come forward. Then, with his habitual helpless gesture, he turned back +to his old position. + +Susan, her face eloquent with amazed unbelief, turned from one to the +other. + +"You mean--you don't mean--Mis' Colebrook, be you tryin' to--dismissal +me?" + +Mrs. Colebrook flushed and bit her lip. + +"I am dismissing you--yes." + +Once more Susan, in dazed unbelief, looked from one to the other. Her +eyes dwelt longest on the figure of the man at the end of the room. + +"Mr. Burton, do you want me to go?" she asked at last. + +The man turned irritably, with a shrug, and a swift outflinging of his +hands. + +"Of course, I don't want you to go, Susan. But what can I do? I have +no money to pay you, as you know very well. I have no right to keep +you--of course--I should advise you to go." And he turned away again. + +Susan's face cleared. + +"Pooh! Oh, that's all right then," she answered pleasantly. "Mis' +Colebrook, I'm sorry to be troublin' you, but I shall have to give +back that 'ere notice. I ain't goin'." + +Once again Mrs. Colebrook flushed and bit her lip. + +"That will do, Susan. You forget. You're not working for Mr. Burton +now. You're working for me." + +"For YOU?" + +"Certainly. Didn't I just pay you your wages for some weeks past?" + +Susan's tight clutch on the roll of bills loosened so abruptly that +the money fell to the floor. But at once Susan stooped and picked it +up. The next moment she had crossed the room and thrust the money into +Mrs. Colebrook's astonished fingers. + +"I don't want your money, Mis' Colebrook--not on them terms, even for +Keith. I know I hain't earned any the other way, yet, but I hain't +tried all the magazines. There's more--lots more." Her voice faltered, +and almost broke. "I'll do it yet some way, you see if I don't. But I +won't take this. Why, Mis' Colebrook, do you think I'd leave NOW, with +that poor boy blind, an' his father so wrought up he don't have even +his extraordinary common sense about his flannels an' socks an' what +to eat, an' no money to pay the bills with, either? An' him bein' +pestered the life out of him with them intermittent, dunnin' grocers +an' milkmen? Well, I guess not! You couldn't hire me to go, Mis' +Colebrook." + +"Daniel, are you going to stand there and permit me to be talked to +like this?" appealed Mrs. Colebrook. + +"What can I do?" (Was there a ghost of a twinkle in Daniel Burton's +eyes as he turned with a shrug and a lift of his eyebrows?) "If YOU +haven't the money to hire her--" But Mrs. Colebrook, with an indignant +toss of her head, had left the room. + +"Mr. Burton!" Before the man could speak Susan had the floor again. +"Can't you do somethin', sir? Can't you?" + +"Do something, Susan?" frowned the man. + +"Yes, with your sister," urged Susan. "I don't mean because she's so +haughty an' impious. I can stand that. It's about Keith I'm talkin' +about. Mr. Burton, Keith won't never get well, never, so's he can have +that operator on his eyes, unless he takes some exercise an' gets his +strength back. The nurse an' the doctor--they both said he wouldn't." + +"Yes, yes, I know, Susan," fumed the man impatiently, beginning to +pace up and down the room. "And that's just what we're trying to do-- +get his strength back." + +"But he ain't--he won't--he can't," choked Susan feverishly. "Mr. +Burton, I KNOW you don't want to talk about it, but you've got to. I'm +all Keith's got to look out for him." The father of Keith gave an +inarticulate gasp, but Susan plunged on unheeding. "An' he'll never +get well if he ain't let to get up an' stand an' walk an' eat an' sit +down himself. But Mis' Colebrook won't let him. She won't let him do +anything. She keeps sayin', 'Don't do it, oh, don't do it,' all the +time,--when she ought to say, 'Do it, do it, do it!' Mr. Burton, +cryin' an' wringin' your hands an' moanin', 'Oh, Keithie, darling!' +won't make a boy grow red blood an' make you feel so fine you want to +knock a man down! Mr. Burton, I want you to tell that woman to let me +take care of that boy for jest one week--ONE WEEK, an' her not to come +near him with her snivelin' an'--" + +But Daniel Burton, with two hands upflung, and a head that ducked as +if before an oncoming blow, had rushed from the room. For the second +time that day Daniel Burton had fled--to the attic. + + + + +CHAPTER XI + +NOT PATS BUT SCRATCHES + + +Mrs. Colebrook went home the next day. She wore the air of an injured +martyr at breakfast. She told her brother that, of course, if he +preferred to have an ignorant servant girl take care of his poor +afflicted son, she had nothing to say; but that certainly he could not +expect HER to stay, too, especially after being insulted as she had +been. + +Daniel Burton had remonstrated feebly, shrugged his shoulders and +flung his arms about in his usual gestures of impotent annoyance. + +Susan, in the kitchen, went doggedly about her work, singing, +meanwhile, what Keith called her "mad" song. When Susan was +particularly "worked up" over something, "jest b'ilin' inside" as she +expressed it, she always sang this song--her own composition, to the +tune of "When Johnny Comes Marching Home": + + "I've taken my worries, an' taken my woes, + I have, I have, + An' shut 'em up where nobody knows, + I have, I have. + I chucked 'em down, that's what I did, + An' now I'm sittin' upon the lid, + An' we'll all feel gay when Johnny comes marchin' home. + I'm sittin' upon the lid, I am, + Hurrah! Hurrah! + + I'm tryin' to be a little lamb, + Hurrah! Hurrah! + But I'm feelin' more like a great big slam + Than a nice little peaceful woolly lamb, + But we'll all feel gay when Johnny comes marchin' home." + +When Daniel Burton, this morning, therefore, heard Susan singing this +song, he was in no doubt as to Susan's state of mind--a fact which +certainly did not add to his own serenity. + +Upstairs, Keith, wearily indifferent as to everything that was taking +place about him, lay motionless as usual, his face turned toward the +wall. + +And at ten o'clock Mrs. Colebrook went. Five minutes later Daniel +Burton entered the kitchen--a proceeding so extraordinary that Susan +broke off her song in the middle of a "Hurrah" and grew actually pale. + +"What is it?--KEITH? Is anything the matter with Keith?" she faltered. + +Ignoring her question the man strode into the room. + +"Well, Susan, this time you've done it," he ejaculated tersely. + +"Done it--to Keith--ME? Why, Mr. Burton, what do you mean? Is Keith-- +worse?" chattered Susan, with dry lips. "It was only a little hash I +took up. He simply won't eat that oatmeal stuff, an'--" + +"No, no, I don't mean the hash," interrupted the man irritably. "Keith +is all right--that is, he is just as he has been. It's my sister, Mrs. +Colebrook. She's gone." + +"Gone--for good?" + +"Yes, she's gone home." + +"Glory be!" The color came back to Susan's face in a flood, and frank +delight chased the terror from her eyes. "Now we can do somethin' +worthwhile." + +"I reckon you'll find you have to do something, Susan. You know very +well I can't afford to hire a nurse--now." + +"I don't want one." + +"But there's all the other work, too." + +"Work! Why, Mr. Burton, I won't mind a little work if I can have that +blessed boy all to myself with no one to feed him oatmeal mush with a +spoon, an' snivel over him. You jest wait. The first elemental thing +is to learn him self-defiance, so he can do things for himself. Then +he'll begin to get his health an' strength for the operator." + +"You're forgetting the money, Susan. It costs money for that." + +Susan's face fell. + +"Yes, sir, I know." She hesitated, then went on, her color deepening. +"An' I hain't sold--none o' them poems yet. But there's other +magazines, a whole lot of 'em, that I hain't tried. Somebody's sure to +take 'em some time." + +"I'm glad your courage is still good, Susan; but I'm afraid the dear +public is going to appreciate your poems about the way it does--my +pictures," shrugged the man bitterly, as he turned and left the room. + +Not waiting to finish setting her kitchen in order, Susan ran up the +back stairs to Keith's room. + + "Well, your aunt is gone, an' I'm on, + An' here we are together. + We'll chuck our worries into pawn, + An' how do you like the weather?" + +she greeted him gayly. "How about gettin' up? Come on! Such a lazy +boy! Here it is away in the middle of the forenoon, an' you abed like +this!" + +But it was not to be so easy this time. Keith was not to be cajoled +into getting up and dressing himself even to beat Susan's record. +Steadfastly he resisted all efforts to stir him into interest or +action; and a dismayed, disappointed Susan had to go downstairs in +acknowledged defeat. + +"But, land's sake, what could you expect?" she muttered to herself, +after a sorrowful meditation before the kitchen fire. "You can't put a +backbone into a jellyfish by jest showin' him the bone--an' that's +what his aunt has made him--a flappy, transparallel jellyfish. Drat +her! But I ain't goin' to give up. Not much I ain't!" And Susan +attacked the little kitchen stove with a vigor that would have brought +terror to the clinkers of a furnace fire pot. + +Susan did not attempt again that day to get Keith up and dressed; and +she gave him his favorite "pop-overs" for supper with a running fire +of merry talk and jingles that contained never a reference to the +unpleasant habit of putting on clothes, But the next morning, after +she had given Keith his breakfast (not of toast and oatmeal) she +suggested blithely that he get up and be dressed. When he refused she +tried coaxing, mildly, then more strenuously. When this failed she +tried to sting his pride by telling him she did not believe he could +get up now, anyhow, and dress himself. + +"All right, Susan, let it go that I can't. I don't want to, anyhow," +sighed the boy with impatient weariness. "Say, can't you let a fellow +alone?" + +Susan drew a long breath and held it suspended for a moment. She had +the air of one about to make a dreaded plunge. + +"No, I can't let you alone, Keith," she replied, voice and manner now +coldly firm. + +"Why not? What's the use when I don't want to get up?" + +"How about thinkin' for once what somebody else wants, young man?" +Susan caught her breath again, and glanced furtively at the half- +averted face on the pillow. Then doggedly she went on. "Maybe you +think I hain't got anything to do but trespass up an' down them stairs +all day waitin' on you, when you are perfectly capacious of waitin' on +yourself SOME." + +"Why, SUSAN!" There was incredulous, hurt amazement in the boy's +voice; but Susan was visibly steeling herself against it. + +"What do you think?--that I'm loafin' all day, an' your aunt gone now, +an' me with it all on my hands?" she demanded, her stony gaze +carefully turned away from the white face on the pillow. "An' to have +to keep runnin' up here all the mornin' when I've got to do the +dishes, an' bake bread, an' make soap, an'--" + +"If you'll get my clothes, Susan, I'll get up," said Keith very +quietly from the bed. + +And Susan, not daring to unclose her lips, wrested the garments from +the hooks, dropped them on to the chair by the bed, and fled from the +room. But she had not reached the hall below when the sobs shook her +frame. + +"An' me talkin' like that when I'd be willin' to walk all day on my +hands an' knees, if't would help him one little minute," she choked. + +Barely had Susan whipped herself into presentable shape again when +Keith's voice at the kitchen door caused her to face about with a +startled cry. + +"I'm downstairs, Susan." The boy's voice challenged hers for coldness +now. "I'll take my meals down here, after this." + +"Why, Keith, however in the world did you--" Then Susan pulled herself +up. "Good boy, Keith! That WILL make it lots easier," she said +cheerfully, impersonally, turning away and making a great clatter of +pans in the sink. + +But later, at least once every half-hour through that long forenoon, +Susan crept softly through the side hall to the half-open living-room +door, where she could watch Keith. She watched him get up and move +slowly along the side of the room, picking his way. She watched him +pause and move hesitating fingers down the backs of the chairs that he +encountered. But when she saw him stop and finger the books on the +little table by the window, she crept back to her kitchen--and rattled +still more loudly the pots and pans in the sink. + +Just before the noon meal Keith appeared once more at the kitchen +door. + +"Susan, would it bother you very much if I ate out here--with you?" he +asked. + +"With me? Nonsense! You'll eat in the dinin'-room with your dad, of +course. Why, what would he say to your eatin' out here with me?" + +"That's just it. It's dad. He'd like it, I'm sure," insisted the boy +feverishly. "You know sometimes I--I don't get any food on my fork, +when I eat, an' I have to--to feel for things, an' it--it must be +disagreeable to see me. An' you know he never liked disagreeable--" + +"Now, Keith Burton, you stop right where you are," interrupted Susan +harshly. "You're goin' to eat with your father where you belong. An' +do you now run back to the settin'-room. I've got my dinner to get." + +Keith had not disappeared down the hall, however, before Susan was +halfway up the back stairs. A moment later she was in the studio. + +"Daniel Burton, you're goin' to have company to dinner," she panted. + +"Company?" + +"Yes. Your son." "KEITH?" The man drew back perceptibly. + +"There, now, Daniel Burton, don't you go to scowlin' an' lookin' for a +place to run, just because you hate to see him feel 'round for what he +eats." + +"But, Susan, it breaks my heart," moaned the man, turning quite away. + +"What if it does? Ain't his broke, too? Can't you think of him a +little? Let me tell you this, Daniel Burton--that boy has more +consolation for your feelin's than you have for his, every time. +Didn't he jest come to me an' beg to eat with me, 'cause his dad +didn't like to see disagreeable things, an'--" + +The man wheeled sharply. + +"Did Keith--do that?" + +"He did, jest now, sir." + +"All right, Susan. I--I don't think you'll have to say--any more." + +And Susan, after a sharp glance into the man's half-averted face, said +no more. A moment later she had left the room. + +At dinner that day, with red eyes but a vivacious manner, she waited +on a man who incessantly talked of nothing in particular, and a boy +who sat white-faced and silent, eating almost nothing. + + + + +CHAPTER XII + +CALLERS FOR "KEITHIE" + + +And so inch by inch Susan fought her way, and inch by inch she gained +ground. Sometimes it was by coaxing, sometimes by scolding; perhaps +most often by taunts and dares, and shrewd appeals to Keith's pride. +But by whatever it was, each day saw some stride forward, some new +victory that Keith had won over his blindness, until by the end of the +week the boy could move about the house and wait upon himself with a +facility almost unbelievable when one remembered his listless +helplessness of a week before. + +Then one day there entered into the case a brand-new element, a dainty +element in white muslin and fluttering blue ribbons--Mazie Sanborn and +Dorothy Parkman. + +"We heard Keithie was lots better and up and dressed now," chirped +Mazie, when Susan answered her ring; "and so we've brought him some +flowers. Please can't we see him?" + +Susan hesitated. Susan had not forgotten Keith's feverish retreat from +Mazie's greeting called up to the veranda the month before. But then, +for that matter, had he not retreated from everything until she +determinedly took him in hand? And he must some time begin to mingle +with the world outside the four walls of his house! + +Why not now? What better chance could she hope to have for him to +begin than this? Where could she find two more charmingly alluring +ambassadors of that outside world than right here on the door-step +now? + +Susan's lips snapped together with a little defiant nod of her head, +then parted in a cordial smile. + +"Sure, you may see him," she cried, "an' it's glad that I am to have +you come! It'll do him good. Come in, come in!" And with only a +heightened color to show her trepidation as to the reception that +might be accorded her charges, she threw open the sitting-room door. +"Well, Keith, here's company come on purpose to see you. An' they've +brought you some flowers," she announced gayly. + +"No, no, Susan, I--I don't want to see them," stammered the boy. He +had leaped to his feet, a painful red flooding his face. + +"Well, I like that!" bridled Mazie, with playful indignation; "and +when Dorothy and I have taken all this trouble to come and--" + +"Is Dorothy here, too?" interrupted the boy sharply. + +"Yes, Keith I am--here." Dorothy was almost crying, and her voice +sounded harsh and unnatural. + +"And we brought you these," interposed Mazie brightly, crossing the +room to his side and holding out the flowers. Then, with a little +embarrassed laugh, as he did not take them, she thrust them into his +fingers. "Oh, I forgot. You can't see them, can you?" + +"Mazie!" remonstrated the half-smothered voice of Dorothy. + +But it was Susan who came promptly to the rescue. + +"Yes, an' ain't they pretty?" she cried, taking them from Keith's +unresisting fingers. "Here, let me put 'em in water, an' you two sit +down. I always did love coronation pinks," she declared briskly, as +she left the room. + +She was not gone long. Very quickly she came back, with the flowers in +a vase. Keith had dropped back into his chair; but he was plainly so +unwilling a host that Susan evidently thought best to assist him. She +set the vase on a little stand near Keith's chair, then dropped +herself on to the huge haircloth sofa near by. + +"My, but I don't mind settin' myself awhile," she smiled. "Guess I'm +tired." + +"I should think you would be." Mazie, grown suddenly a bit stiff and +stilted, was obviously trying to be very polite and "grown up." "There +must be an awful lot to do here. Mother says she don't see how you +stand it." + +"Pooh! Not so very much!" scoffed Susan, instantly on her guard. +"Keith here's gettin' so smart he won't let me do anything hardly for +him now." + +Oh, but there must be a lot of things," began Mazie," that he can't +do, and--" + +"Er--what a lovely big, sunny room," interrupted Dorothy hastily, so +hastily that Susan threw a sharp glance into her face to see if she +were really interrupting Mazie for a purpose. "I love big rooms." + +"Yes, so do I," chimed in Mazie. "And I always wanted to see the +inside of this house, too." + +"What for?" Keith's curiosity got the better of his vexed reticence, +and forced the question from his lips. + +"Oh, just 'cause I've heard folks say 'twas so wonderful--old, you +know, and full of rare old things, and there wasn't another for miles +around like it. But I don't see--That is," she corrected herself, +stumbling a little, "you probably don't keep them in this room, +anyway." + +"Why, they do, too," interfered Dorothy, with suddenly pink cheeks. +"This room is just full of the loveliest kind of old things, just like +the things father is always getting--only nicer. Now that, right there +in the corner, all full of drawers--We've got one almost just exactly +like that out home, and father just dotes on it. That IS a--a highboy, +isn't it?" she appealed to Susan. "And it is very old, isn't it?" + +"A highboy? Old? Lan' sakes, child," laughed Susan. "Maybe 'tis. I +ain't sayin' 'tisn't, though I'm free to confess I never heard it +called that. But it's old enough, if that's all it needs; it's old +enough to be a highMAN by this time, I reckon," chuckled Susan. "Mr. +Burton was tellin' me one day how it belonged to his great-grand- +mother." + +"Kind of funny-looking, though, isn't it?" commented Mazie. + +"Father'd love it, so'd Aunt Hattie," avowed Dorothy, evidently not +slow to detect the lack of appreciation in Mazie's voice. "And I do, +too," she finished, with a tinge of defiance. + +Mazie laughed. + +"Well, all right, you may, for all I care," she retorted. Then to +Keith she turned with sudden disconcerting abruptness: "Say, Keith, +what do you do all day?" + +It was Susan who answered this. Indeed, it was Susan who answered a +good many of the questions during the next fifteen minutes. Some she +answered because she did not want Keith to answer them. More she +answered because Keith would not answer them. To tell the truth, Keith +was anything but a polite, gracious host. He let it be plainly +understood that he was neither pleased at the call nor interested in +the conversation. And the only semblance of eagerness in his demeanor +that afternoon was when his young visitors rose to go. + +In spite of Keith's worse than indifference, however, Susan was +convinced that this call, and others like it, were exactly what was +needed for Keith's best welfare and development. With all her skill +and artifice, therefore, she exerted herself to make up for Keith's +negligence. She told stories, rattled off absurd jingles, and laughed +and talked with each young miss in turn, determined to make the call +so great a success that the girls would wish to come again. + +When she had bowed them out and closed the door behind them, she came +back to Keith, intending to remonstrate with him for his very +ungracious behavior. But before she could open her lips Keith himself +had the floor. + +"Susan Betts," he began passionately, as soon as she entered the room, +"don't you ever let those girls in again. I won't have them. I WON'T +HAVE THEM, I tell you! + +"Oh, for shame, Keith!--and when they were so kind and thoughtful, +too!" + +"It wasn't kindness and thoughtfulness," resented the boy. "It was +spying out. They came to see how I took it. I know 'em. And that +Dorothy Parkman--I don't know WHY she came. She said long ago that she +couldn't bear--to look at 'em." + +"Look at them?" + +"Yes--blind folks. Her father is a big oculist--doctors eyes, you +know. She told me once. And she said she couldn't bear to look at +them; that--" + +"An eye doctor?--a big one?" Susan was suddenly excited, alert. + +"Yes, yes. And--" + +"Where's he live?" + +"I don't know. Where she does, I s'pose. I don't know where that is. +She's here most of the time, and--" + +"Is he a real big one?--a really, truly big one?" + +"Yes, yes, I guess so." Keith had fallen wearily back in his chair, +his strength spent. "Dad said he was one of the biggest in the +country. And of course lots of--of blind people go there, and she sees +them. Only she says she can't bear to see them, that she won't look at +them. And--and she shan't come here--she shan't, Susan, to look at me, +and--" + +But Susan was not listening now. With chin up-tilted and a new fire in +her eyes, she had turned toward the kitchen door. + +Two days later, on her way to the store, Susan spied Dorothy Parkman +across the street. Without hesitation or ceremony she went straight +across and spoke to her. + +"Is it true that your father is a big occultist, one of the biggest +there is?" she demanded. + +"A--what?" Dorothy frowned slightly. + +"Occultist--doctors folks' eyes, you know. Is he? I heard he was." + +"Oh! Y-yes--yes, he is." Miss Dorothy was giggling a bit now. + +"Then, listen!" In her eagerness Susan had caught the girl's sleeve +and held it. "Can't you get him to come on an' see you, right away, +quick? Don't he want to take you home, or--or something?" + +Dorothy laughed merrily. + +"Why, Susan, are you in such a hurry as all that to get rid of me? Did +I act so bad the other day that--"A sudden change crossed her face. +Her eyes grew soft and luminous. "Was it for--Keith that you wanted +father, Susan?" + +"Yes." Susan's eyes blurred, and her voice choked. + +"Well, then I'm glad to tell you he is coming by and by. He's coming +to take me home for Christmas. But--he isn't going to stay long." + +"That's all right--that's all right," retorted Susan, a little +breathlessly. "If he'd jest look at the boy's eyes an' tell if--if he +could fix 'em later. You see, we--we couldn't have it done now, 'cause +there ain't any money to pay. But we'll have it later. We'll sure have +it later, an' then--" + +"Of course he'll look at them," interrupted Dorothy eagerly. "He'll +love to, I know. He's always so interested in eyes, and new cases. +And--and don't worry about the other part--the money, you know," +nodded Dorothy, hurrying away then before Susan could protest. + +As it happened Keith was more "difficult" than usual that afternoon, +and Susan, thinking to rouse him from his lassitude, suddenly +determined to tell him all about the wonderful piece of good fortune +in store for him. + +"How'd you like to have that little Miss Dorothy's daddy see your +eyes, honey," she began eagerly, "an' tell--" + +"I wouldn't let him see them." Keith spoke coldly, decisively. + +"Oh, but he's one of the biggest occultists there is, an'--" + +"I suppose you mean 'oculist,' Susan," interrupted Keith, still more +coldly; "but that doesn't make any difference. I don't want him." + +"But, Keith, if he--" + +"I tell you I won't have him," snapped Keith irritably. + +"But you've got to have somebody, an' if he's the biggest!" All the +eager light had died out of Susan's face. + +"I don't care if he is the biggest, he's Dorothy Parkman's father, and +that's enough. I WON'T HAVE HIM!" + +"No, no; well, all right!" And Susan, terrified and dismayed, hurried +from the room. + +But though Susan was dismayed and terrified, she was far from being +subdued. In the kitchen she lifted her chin defiantly. + +"All right, Master Keith," she muttered to herself. "You can say what +you want to, but you'll have him jest the same--only you won't know +he's HIM. I'll jest tell him to call hisself another name for you. An' +some time I'll find out what there is behind that Dorothy Parkman +business. But 'tain't till Christmas, an' that's 'most two months off +yet. Time enough for trouble when trouble knocks at the door; an' till +it does knock, jest keep peggin' away." + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +FREE VERSE--A LA SUSAN + + +And persistently, systematically Susan did, indeed, keep "peggin' +away." No sooner had she roused Keith to the point of accomplishing +one task than she set for him another. No sooner could he pilot +himself about one room than she inveigled him into another. And when +he could go everywhere about the house she coaxed him out into the +yard. It was harder here, for Keith had a morbid fear of being stared +at. And only semi-occasionally would he consent at all to going out. + +It was then that with stern determination Susan sought Daniel Burton. + +"Look a-here, Daniel Burton," she accosted him abruptly, "I've done +all I can now, an' it's up to you." + +The man looked up, plainly startled. + +"Why, Susan, you don't mean--you aren't--GOING, are you?" + +"Goin' nothin'--shucks!" tossed Susan to one side disdainfully. "I +mean that Keith ain't goin' to get that good red blood he's needin' +sittin' 'round the house here. He's got to go off in the woods an' +walk an' tramp an' run an' scuff leaves. An' you've got to go with +him. I can't, can I?" + +The man shifted his position irritably. + +"Do you think that boy will let me lead him through the streets, +Susan? Well, I know he won't." + +"I didn't say 'lead him.' I said go WITH him. There's an awful lot of +difference between leadin' an' accommodatin'. We don't none of us like +to be led, but we don't mind goin' WITH folks 'most anywheres. Put +your arm into his an' walk together. He'll walk that way. I've tried +it. An' to see him you wouldn't know he was blind at all. Oh, yes, I +know you're hangin' back an' don't want to. I know you hate to see him +or be with him, 'cause it makes you KNOW what a terrible thing it is +that's come to you an' him. But you've got to, Daniel Burton. You an' +me is all he's got to stand between him an' utter misery. I can feed +his stomach an' make him do the metaphysical things, but it's you +that's got to feed his soul an' make him do the menial things." + +"Oh, Susan, Susan!" half groaned the man. There was a smile on his +lips, but there were tears in his eyes. + +"Well, it's so," argued Susan earnestly. "Oh, I read to him, of +course. I read him everything I can get hold of, especially about men +an' women that have become great an' famous an' extinguished, even if +they was blind or deaf an' dumb, or lame--especially blind. But I +can't learn him books, Mr. Burton. You've got to do that. You've got +to be eyes for him, an' he's got to go to school to you. Mr. Burton," +--Susan's voice grew husky and unsteady,--"you've got a chance now to +paint bigger an' grander pictures than you ever did before, only you +won't be paintin' 'em on canvas backs. You'll be paintin' 'em on that +boy's soul, an' you'll be usin' words instead of them little brushes." + +"You've put that--very well, Susan." It was the man who spoke +unsteadily, huskily, now. + +"I don't know about that, but I do know that them pictures you're +goin' to paint for him is goin' to be the makin' of him. Why, Mr. +Burton, we can't have him lazin' behind, 'cause when he does get back +his eyes we don't want him to be too far behind his class." + +"But what--if he doesn't ever get his eyes", Susan?" + +"Then he'll need it all the more. But he's goin' to get 'em, Mr. +Burton. Don't you remember? The nurse said if he got well an' strong +he could have somethin' done. I've got the doctor, an' all I need now +is the money. An'--an' that makes me think." She hesitated, growing +suddenly pink and embarrassed. Then resolutely she put her hand into +the pocket of her apron and pulled out two folded papers. + +"I was goin' to tell you about these, anyhow, so I might as well do it +now," she explained. "You know, them--them other poems didn't sell +much--there was only one went, an' the man wouldn't take that till +he'd made me promise he could print my letter, too, that I'd wrote +with it--jest as if that was worth anything!--but he only paid a +measly dollar anyhow. "Susan's voice faltered a little, though her +chin was at a brave tilt. "An' I guess now I know the reason. Them +kind of poems ain't stylish no longer. Rhymes has gone out. +Everything's 'free verse' now. I've been readin' up about it. So I've +wrote some of 'em. They're real easy to do--jest lines chopped off +free an' easy, anywheres that it happens, only have some long, an' +some short, for notoriety, you know, like this." And she read: + +"A great big cloud + That was black + Came up + Out of the West. An' I knew + Then + For sure + That a storm was brewin'. + An' it brewed." + +"Now that was dead easy--anybody could see that. But it's kind of +pretty, I think, too, jest the same. Them denatured poems are always +pretty, I think--about trees an' grass an' flowers an' the sky, you +know. Don't you?" + +"Why, er--y-yes, of course," murmured the man faintly. + +"I tried a love poem next. I don't write them very often. They're so +common. You see 'em everywhere, you know. But I thought I would try +it--'twould be different, anyhow, in this new kind of verses. So I +wrote this: + + Oh, love of mine, + I love + Thee. + Thy hair is yellow like the + Golden squash. + Thy neck so soft + An' slender like a goose, + Is encompassed in filtered lace + So rich an' + Rare. + Thy eyes in thy pallid face like + Blueberries in a + Saucer of milk. + Oh, love of mine, + I love + Thee." + +"Have you sent--any of these away yet, Susan?" Daniel Burton was on +his feet now, his back carefully turned. + +"No, not yet; but I'm goin' to pretty quick, an' I guess them will +sell." Susan nodded happily, and smiled. But almost instantly her face +grew gravely earnest again. "But all the money in the world ain't +goin' to do no good Mr. Burton, unless we do our part, an' our part is +to get him well an' strong for that operator. Now I'm goin' to send +Keith in to you. I ain't goin' to TELL him he's goin' to walk with +you, 'cause if I did he wouldn't come. But I'm expectin' you to take +him, jest the same," she finished severely, as she left the room. + +Keith and his father went to walk. It was the first of many such +walks. Almost every one of these crisp November days found the two off +on a tramp somewhere. And because Daniel Burton was careful always to +accompany, never to lead, the boy's step gained day by day in +confidence and his face in something very like interest. And always, +for cold and stormy days, there were the books at home. + +Daniel Burton was not painting pictures--pigment pictures--these days. +His easel was empty. "The Woodland Path," long since finished, had +been sent away "to be sold." Most of Daniel Burton's paintings were +"sent away to be sold," so that was nothing new. What was new, +however, was the fact that no fresh canvas was placed on the easel to +take the place of the picture sent away. Daniel Burton had begun no +new picture. The easel, indeed, was turned face to the wall. And yet +Daniel Burton was painting pictures, wonderful pictures. His brushes +were words, his colors were the blue and gold and brown and crimson of +the wide autumn landscape, his inspiration was the hungry light on a +boy's face, and his canvas was the soul of the boy behind it. Most +assuredly Daniel Burton was giving himself now, heart and mind and +body, to his son. Even the lynx-eyed, alert Susan had no fault to +find. Daniel Burton, most emphatically, was "doing his part." + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + +A SURPRISE ALL AROUND + + +The week before Christmas Dorothy Parkman brought a tall, dignified- +looking man to the Burtons' shabby, but still beautiful, colonial +doorway. + +Dorothy had not seen Keith, except on the street, since her visit with +Mazie in October. Two or three times the girls had gone to the house +with flowers or fruit, but Keith had stubbornly refused to see them, +in spite of Susan's urgings. To-day Dorothy, with this evidently in +mind, refused Susan's somewhat dubious invitation to come in. + +"Oh, no, thank you, I'll not come in," she smiled. "I only brought +father, that's all. And--oh, I do hope he can do something," she +faltered unsteadily. And Susan saw that her eyes were glistening with +tears as she turned away. + +In the hall Susan caught the doctor's arm nervously. + +"Dr. Parkman, there's somethin'--" + +"My name is Stewart," interrupted the doctor. + +"What's that? What's that?" cried Susan, unconsciously tightening her +clasp on his arm. "Ain't you Dorothy Parkman's father?" + +"I'm her stepfather. She was nine when I married Mrs. Parkman, her +mother." + +"Then your name ain't Parkman, at all! Oh, glory be!" ejaculated Susan +ecstatically. "Well, if that ain't the luckiest thing ever!" + +"Lucky?" frowned the doctor, looking thoroughly mystified, and not +altogether pleased. + +Susan gave an embarrassed laugh. + +"There, now, if that ain't jest like me, to fly off on a tandem like +that, without a word of exploitation. It's jest that I'm so glad I +won't have to ask you to come under a resumed name." + +"Under a what, madam?" The doctor was looking positively angry now. +Moreover, with no uncertain determination, he was trying to draw +himself away from Susan's detaining fingers. + +"Oh, please, doctor, please, don't be mad!" Susan had both hands hold +of his arm now. "'Twas for Keith, an' I knew you'd be willin' to do +anything for him, when you understood, jest as I am. You see, I didn't +want him to know you was Dorothy's father," she plunged on +breathlessly, "an' so I was goin' to ask you to let me call you +somethin' else--not Parkman. An' then, when I found that you didn't +have to have a resumed name, that you was already somebody else--that +is, that you was really you, only Keith wouldn't know you was you, I +was so glad." + +"Oh, I see." The doctor was still frowning, though his lips were +twitching a little. "But--er--do you mind telling me why I can't be I? +What's the matter with Dorothy's father?" + +"Nothin' sir. It's jest a notion. Keith won't see Dorothy, nor Mazie, +nor none of 'em. He thinks they come jest to spy out how he looks an' +acts; an' he got it into his head that if you was Dorothy's father, he +wouldn't see you. He hates to be pitied an' stared at." + +"Oh, I see." A sympathetic understanding came into the doctor's eyes. +The anger was all gone now. "Very well. As it happens I'm really Dr. +Stewart. So you may call me that with all honesty, and we'll be very +careful not to let the boy know I ever heard of Dorothy Parkman. How +about the boy's father? Does he--know?" + +"Yes, sir. I told him who you was, an' that you was comin'; an' I told +him we wasn't goin' to let Keith know. An' he said 'twas absurd, an' +we couldn't help lettin' him know. But I told him I knew better an' +'twas all right." + +"Oh, you did!" The doctor was regarding Susan with a new interest in +his eyes. + +"Yes, an' 'tis, you see." + +"Where is Mr. Burton?" + +"In his studio--shut up. He'll see you afterwards. I told him he'd GOT +to do that." + +"Eh? What?" The doctor's eyes flew wide open. + +"See you afterwards. I told him he'd ought to be in the room with you, +when you was examplin' Keith's eyes. But I knew he wouldn't do that. +He never will do such-like things--makes him feel too bad. An' he +wanted ME to find out what you said. But I told him HE'D got to do +that. But, oh, doctor, I do hope--oh, please, please say somethin' +good if you can. An' now I'll take you in. It's right this way through +the sittin'-room." + +"By Jove, what a beauty!" Halfway across the living-room the doctor +had come to a pause before the mahogany highboy. + +"THAT?" + +"Yes, 'that'!" The whimsical smile in the doctor's eyes showed that he +was not unappreciative of the scorn in Susan's voice. "By George, it +IS a beauty! I've got one myself, but it doesn't compare with that, +for a minute. H-m! And that's not the only treasure you have here, I +see," he finished, his admiring gaze roving about the room. "We've got +some newer, better stuff in the parlor. These are awful old things in +here," apologized Susan. + +"Yes, I see they are--old things." The whimsical smile had come back +to the doctor's eyes as he followed Susan through the doorway. + +"Keith's upstairs in his room, an' I'm takin' you up the back way so's +Mr. Burton won't hear. He asked me to. He didn't want to know jest +exactly when you was here." + +"Mr. Burton must be a brave man," commented the doctor dryly. + +"He ain't--not when it comes to seein' disagreeable things, or folks +hurt," answered the literal Susan cheerfully. "But he'll see you all +right, when it's over." Her lips came together with a sudden grimness. + +The next moment, throwing open Keith's door, her whole expression +changed. She had eyes and thoughts but for the blind boy over by the +window. + +The doctor, too, obviously, by the keen, professional alertness that +transfigured his face at that moment, had eyes and thoughts but for +that same blind boy over by the window. + +"Well, Keith, here's Dr. Stewart to see you boy." + +"Dr.--Stewart?" Keith was on his feet, startled, uncertain. + +"Yes, Dr. Stewart.'" Susan repeated the name with clear emphasis. "He +was in town an' jest came up to look at you. He's a big, kind doctor, +dear, an' you'll like him, I know." At the door Susan turned to the +doctor. "An' when--when you're done, sir, if you'll jest come down +them stairs to the kitchen, please--TO THE KITCHEN," she repeated, +hurrying out before Keith could remonstrate. + +Down in the kitchen Susan took a pan of potatoes to peel--and when, +long hours later, after the doctor had come downstairs, had talked +with Mr. Burton, and had gone, Susan went to get those potatoes to +boil for dinner, she found that all but two of them had been peeled +and peeled and peeled, until there was nothing left but--peelings. + +Susan was peeling the next to the last potato when the doctor came +down to the kitchen. + +"Well?" She was on her feet instantly. + +The doctor's face was grave, yet his eyes were curiously alight. They +seemed to be looking through and beyond Susan. + +"I don't know. I THINK I have good news, but I'm not--sure." + +"But there's a chance?" + +"Yes; but-" There was a moment's silence; then, with an indrawing of +his breath, the doctor's soul seemed to come back from a long journey. +"I think I know what is the matter." The doctor was looking at Susan, +now, not through her. "If it's what I think it is, it's a very rare +disease, one we do not often find." + +"But could you--can you--is it possible to--to cure it?" + +"We can operate--yes; but it's six to half a dozen whether it's +successful or not. They've just about broken even so far--the cases +I've known about. But they've been interesting, most interesting." The +doctor was far away again. + +"But there's a chance; and if there is a chance I'd want to take it," +cried Susan. "Wouldn't you?" + +There was no answer. + +Susan hesitated, threw a hurried glance into the doctor's preoccupied +face, then hurried on again feverishly. + +"Doctor, there's somethin' I've got to--to speak to you about before +you see Mr. Burton. It--it--it'll cost an awful lot, I s'pose." + +There was no answer. + +Susan cleared her throat. + +"It--it'll cost an awful lot, won't it, doctor?" she asked in a louder +voice. + +"Eh? What? Cost? Oh, yes, yes; it is an expensive operation." The +doctor spoke unconcernedly. He merely glanced at Susan, then resumed +his fixed gaze into space. + +"Well, doctor." Susan cleared her throat again. This time she caught +hold of the doctor's sleeve as if to pull him bodily back to a +realizing sense of her presence. "About the money--we haven't got it. +An' that's what I wanted to speak to you about. Mr. Burton hain't got +any. He's already spent more'n he's got--part of next year's annual, I +mean. Some day he'll have more--a whole lot more--when Mis' Holworthy, +his third cousin, dies. 'Twas her husband that gave him the annual, +you understand, an' when she dies it'll come to him in a plump sum. +But 'tain't his now, an' 'course it won't be till she goes; an' +'course 'tain't for us to dodge her footsteps hopin' she'll jest +naturally stop walkin' some day--though I'm free to confess she has +lost most all her facilities, bein' deaf an' lame an' some blind; an' +I can't exactly see the harm in wishin' she had got 'em all back--in +Heaven, I mean. But 'course I don't say so to him. An' as I said +before, we hain't got money now--not any. + +"An'--an' his last pictures didn't sell any better than the others," +she went on a little breathlessly. "Then there was me--that is, I WAS +goin' to get some money; but--but, well MY pictures didn't sell, +either." She paused to wet her lips. "But I've thought it all out, an' +there's a way. + +You--you'd have to have Keith with you, somewheres, wouldn't you?" + +"To operate? Oh, yes, yes." + +"A long time?" + +"Eh? What? Oh, yes, we would have to have him a long time, probably. +In fact, time is one of the very biggest factors in such cases--for +the after-treatment, you know. And we must have him where we can watch +him, of course." + +"Oh! Then that's all right, then. I can manage it fine," sighed Susan, +showing by the way her whole self relaxed how great had been the +strain. "Then I'll come right away to work for you." + +"To what?" The doctor suddenly came back to earth. + +"To work for you--in your kitchen, I mean," nodded Susan. "I'll send +Mr. Burton to his sister's, then I'll come to you, an' I'll come +impaired to stay till I've paid it up--every cent." + +"Good Heavens, woman!" ejaculated the man. "What are you talking +about?" + +"Oh, please, please don't say that I can't," besought Susan, her +fearful eyes on his perturbed face. "I'll work real well--truly I +will. An' I'm a real good cook, honest I am, when I have a super- +abundance to do it with--butter, an' eggs, an' nice roasts. An' I +won't bother you a mite with my poetry. I don't make it much now, +anyhow. An'--oh, doctor, you've GOT to let me do it; it's the only way +there is to p-pay." Her voice choked into silence. Susan turned her +back abruptly. Not even for Keith could Susan let any one see her cry. + +"Pay! And do you think you'd live long--" Just in time the doctor +pulled himself up short. Thrusting his hands into his pockets he took +a nervous turn about the kitchen; then sharply he wheeled about. "My +dear woman, let us talk no more about the money question. See here, I +shall be glad to take that boy into my charge and take care of him for +the sheer love of it--indeed, I shall!" + +"Do you mean without ANY pay?" Susan had drawn herself up haughtily. + +"Yes. So far as money goes--it is of no consequence, anyway. I'm glad--" + +"Thank you, but we ain't charitable folks, Dr. Stewart," cut in Susan +coldly. "Maybe it is infinitesimal to you whether we pay or not, but't +ain't to us. We don't want--" + +"But I tell you it's pay enough just to do it," interrupted the doctor +impatiently. "It's a very rare case, and I'm glad--" + +A door banged open. + +"Susan, hasn't that doctor--" a new voice cut in, then stopped short. + +The doctor turned to see a pallid-faced, blond-bearded man with +rumpled hair standing in the doorway. + +"Mr. Burton?" hazarded the doctor crisply. + +"Yes. And you-" + +"Dr. Stewart. And I'd like a little talk with you, please--if you can +talk sense. "This last was added under his breath; but Daniel Burton +was not listening, in any case. He was leading the way to the studio. + +In the studio the doctor did not wait for questions, but plunged at +once into his story. + +"Without going into technical terms, Mr. Burton, I will say that your +son has a very rare trouble. There is only one known relief, and that +is a certain very delicate operation. Even with that, the chances are +about fifty-fifty that he regains his sight." + +"But there's a chance?" + +"Yes, there's a chance. And, anyway, it won't do any harm to try. It +is the only thing possible, and, if it fails--well, he'll only be +blind, as he is now. It must be done right away, however. Even now it +may be too late. And I may as well tell you, if it DOESN'T fail--there +is a strong probability of another long period of treatment and a +second operation, before there's a chance of ultimate success!" + +"Could--could that time be spent here?" Daniel Burton's lips had grown +a little white. + +"No. I should want the boy where I could see him frequently--with me, +in fact. And that brings me to what I was going to propose. With your +permission I will take the boy back with me next week to Chicago, and +operate at once. And let me say that from sheer interest in the case I +shall be glad to do this entirely without cost to you." + +"Thank you; but of course you must understand that I could not allow +that for a moment." A painful color had flamed into Daniel Burton's +face. + +"Nonsense! Don't be foolish, man. I tell you I'm glad to do it. It'll +be worth it to me--the rarity of the case--" + +"How much--would it cost?" interposed Daniel Burton peremptorily, with +an unsteadiness of voice that the doctor did not fail to read aright. + +"Why, man, alive, it would cost--" With his eyes on Daniel Burton's +sternly controlled face, the doctor came to an abrupt pause. Then, +turning, he began to tramp up and down the room angrily. "Oh, hang it +all, man, why can't you be sensible? I tell you I don't want any--" +Once again his tongue stopped. His feet, also, had come to an abrupt +pause. He was standing before an old colonial mirror. Then suddenly he +wheeled about. "By Jove, there IS something I want. If you'll sell me +two or three of these treasures of yours here, you will be more than +cancelling your debt, and--" + +"Thank you," interrupted the other coldly, but with a still deeper red +staining his face. "As I happen to know of the unsalability of these +pictures, however, I cannot accept your generosity there, either." + +"Pictures!" The doctor, turning puzzled eyes back to the mirror, saw +now that a large oil painting hung beside it on the wall. "I wasn't +talking about your pictures, man," he scoffed then. "I was looking at +that mirror there, and I'd like the highboy downstairs, if I could +persuade you to part with them, and--WOULD you be willing to part with +them?" + +"What do you think!" (So marvelous was the change, and so great was +the shining glory in Daniel Burton's face, that the doctor caught +himself actually blinking.) "Do you think there's anything, ANYTHING +that I wouldn't part with, if I thought I could give that boy a +chance? Make your own selection, doctor. I only hope you'll want-- +really WANT--enough of them to amount to something." + +The doctor threw a keen glance into his face. + +"Amount to something! Don't you know the value of these things here?" + +Daniel Burton laughed and shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, I suppose they +are--valuable. But I shall have to confess I DON'T know very much +about it. They're very old, I can vouch for that." + +"Old! Humph!" The doctor was close to the mirror now, examining it +with the appreciative eyes of the real lover of the antique. "I should +say they were. Jove, that's a beauty! And I've got just the place +that's hungering for it." + +"Good! Suppose we look about the house, then, a little," suggested +Daniel Burton. "Perhaps we'll find some more things--er--good for a +hungry stomach, eh?" And with a light on his face such as had not been +there for long months past, Daniel Burton led the way from the studio. + + + + +CHAPTER XV + +AGAIN SUSAN TAKES A HAND + + +That evening Daniel Burton told Susan. "Keith is to go home with Dr. +Stewart next week. The doctor will operate as soon as possible. Keith +will live at the sanatorium connected with the doctor's home and be +under his constant supervision." + +Susan tried to speak, but instead of speaking she burst into tears. + +"Why, Susan!" exclaimed the man. + +"I know, I know," she choked, angrily dashing the drops from her eyes. +"An' me cryin' like this when I'm gettin' jest what I want, too!" + +"But there's no certainty, Susan, that it'll be successful; remember +that," warned the man, his face clouding a little. "We can only-- +hope." + +"An' there's the--the pay." Susan looked up, her voice vibrating with +fearful doubts. + +"Oh, that's all right." The man lifted his head with the air of one +who at last has reached firm ground after a dangerous crossing on thin +ice. "The doctor's going to buy the highboy and that mirror in the +studio, and--oh, several other things." + +"You mean that old chest of drawers in the settin'-room?" scorned +Susan openly. + +"Yes." Daniel Burton's lips twitched a little. + +"But will he PAY anything for 'em? Mr. Burton, you can't get nothin', +hardly, for second-hand furniture. My mother had a stove an' a real +nice bedstead, an' a red-plush parlor set, an' she sold 'em. But she +didn't get anything--not hardly anything, for 'em; an' they was 'most +new, some of 'em, too." + +"That's the trouble, Susan--they were too new, probably," laughed the +man. "It's because these are old, very old, that he wants them, I +suspect. + +"An' he'll really pay MONEY for 'em?" Plainly Susan still had her +doubts. + +"He certainly will. I'd be almost ashamed to tell you HOW much he'll +pay, Susan," smiled the man. "It seemed to me sheer robbery on my +part. But he assures me they are very valuable, and that he's more +than delighted to have them even at that price." + +"Lan' sakes! An' when I'd been worryin' an' worryin' so about the +money," sighed Susan; "an' now to have it fall plump into your lap +like that. It jest shows you not to hunt for bridges till you get your +feet wet, don't it? An' he's goin' jest next week?" + +"Yes. The doctor and his daughter start Tuesday." + +"You don't mean that girl Dorothy's goin' too?" Susan had almost +bounced out of her chair. + +"Why, yes, Dr. Stewart SAID she was. What's the matter?" + +"Matter? Matter enough! Why, if she goes--Say, why IS she taggin' +along, anyhow?" demanded Susan wrathfully. + +"Well, I shouldn't exactly call it 'taggin' along' to go home with her +father for the Christmas vacation," shrugged the man. "As I understand +it, Dorothy's mother died several years ago. That's why the girl is +here in the East so much with her relatives, going to school. The +doctor's home has become practically a sanatorium--not the most +desirable place in the world to bring up a young daughter in, I should +say. Let's see, how old is Miss Dorothy?" + +"Sixteen, Keith says. I asked him one day. She's about his age." + +"Hm-m; well, however that may be, Susan, I don't see how we can help +ourselves very well. I fancy Miss Dorothy'll still--tag along," he +finished whimsically. + +"Maybe, an' then maybe not," mumbled Susan darkly, as she turned away. + +For two days after this Susan's kitchen, and even Keith himself, +showed almost neglect; persistently and systematically Susan was +running "down street" every hour or two--ostensibly on errands, yet +she bought little. She spent most of her time tramping through the +streets and stores, scrutinizing especially the face of every young +girl she met. + +On the afternoon of the second day she met Dorothy Parkman coming out +of the post-office. + +"Well, I've got you at last," she sighed, "though I'm free to confess +I was beginnin' to think I never would see you." + +"Oh, yes, about Keith," cried the girl joyously. "Isn't it splendid! +I'm so glad! And he's going home with us right away, you know." + +"Yes, I know. An' that's what--that is, I wanted--" stammered Susan, +growing red in her misery. "Oh, Miss Dorothy, you WOULD do anything +for that poor blind boy, wouldn't you?" + +"Why, y-yes, of course," faltered Dorothy, stammering in her turn. + +"I knew you would. Then please don't go home with your father this +time." + +"Don't go home--with--my father!" exclaimed the girl, in puzzled +wonder. + +"No. Because if you do--That is--Oh, I know it's awful for me to say +this, but I've got to do it for Keith. You see, if you go,--Keith +won't." + +"If I go, he--I don't think--I quite understand." The girl drew back a +little haughtily. Her face showed a painful flush. + +"No, no, of course you don't! An' please, PLEASE don't look like +that," begged Susan. "It's jest this. I found out. I wormed it out of +him the other day--why he won't let you come to see him. He says that +once, long ago, you said how you couldn't bear to look at blind +people, an'--" + +"Oh, I never, never could have said such a cruel thing to--to a blind +boy," interposed the girl. + +"He wasn't blind then. He said he wasn't. But, it was when he was +'fraid he was goin' to be blind; an' he see you an' Mazie Sanborn at +the foot of Harrington Hill, one day. It was just after the old man +had got blind, an' Keith had been up to see him. It seems that Keith +was worryin' then for fear HE was goin' to be blind." + +"He WAS?" + +"Yes--things blurred, an' all that. Well, at the foot of the hill he +see you an' Mazie, an' you shuddered at his goin' up to see Mr. +Harrington, an' said how could he bear to look at folks that was +blind. That YOU couldn't. An' he never forgot it. Bein' worried for +fear he himself was goin' blind, you see, he was especially acceptable +to anything like that." + +"Oh, but I--I--At home I always did hate to see all the poor blind +people that came to see father," she stammered. "But it--it was only +because I felt so bad--for them. And that's one reason why father +doesn't keep me at home any more. He says--But, about Keith--I--I +didn't mean to--" Dorothy came to a helpless pause. + +"Yes, I know. You didn't mean to hurt him," nodded Susan. "But it did +hurt him. An' now he always thinks of it, if he knows you're 'round. +You see, worse'n anything else, he hates to be stared at or to have +folks think he's different. There ain't anything I can ever say to him +that makes him half so happy as to act as if he wa'n't blind." + +"Yes, I--see," breathed Dorothy, her eyes brimming. + +"An' so now you won't go, will you? Because if you go, he won't." + +Miss Dorothy frowned in deep thought for a moment. + +"I shall have to go," she said at last, slowly. "Father is just +counting on my being there Christmas, and he is so lonely--I couldn't +disappoint him. But, Keith--I won't have to see much of him, anyway. +I'll explain it to father. He won't mind. He's used to his patients +taking notions. It'll be all right. Don't worry," she nodded, her face +clearing. + +"But you'll have to be with Keith--some." + +"Oh, yes, a little. But he won't know who I am. I'm just Dr. Stewart's +daughter. Don't you see?" + +"But--he'll know your voice." + +"I shan't talk much. Besides, he never did hear me talk much. It was +always Mazie that talked most. And he hasn't heard me any for a year +or more, except that little bit that day at the house." + +"But your name, Dorothy," still argued Susan dubiously. + +"Father never calls me that. I'm always 'Puss' to him. And there won't +be anybody else with us on the journey. Don't you worry. You just send +Keith right along, and trust me for the rest. You'll see," she nodded +again brightly, as she turned away. + +Susan went home then to her neglected work. There seemed really +nothing else that she could do. But that she was far from following +Miss Dorothy's blithe advice "not to worry" was very evident from her +frowning brow and preoccupied air all the rest of the time until +Tuesday morning when Keith went--until, indeed, Mr. Burton came home +from seeing Keith off on his journey. Then her pent-up perturbation +culminated in an onslaught of precipitate questions. + +"Was he all right? Was that girl there? Did he know who she was? Do +you think he'll find out?" + +"One at a time, Susan, one at a time," laughed the man. "Yes, he was +all right. He went off smiling, with the doctor's arm about his +shoulders. Yes, the young lady was there, but she kept well away from +Keith, so far as I could see. Friends had come evidently to see her +off, but I noticed she contrived to keep herself and them as far away +from Keith as possible. Of course, on the journey there'll be just the +three of them. The test will come then. But I wouldn't worry, Susan. +Remember your own advice about those bridges of yours. He's started, +and he's with the doctor. I don't think he'll turn back now." + +"No, I s'pose not," sighed Susan. "But I wish I could really KNOW how +things are!" she finished, as she took up her work again. + +Thirty-six hours later came the telegram from the doctor telling of +their safe arrival, and a week later came a letter from Keith himself +to Susan. It was written in lead-pencil on paper that had been +carefully perforated so as to form lines not too near together. + +At the top of the page in parentheses were these words: + +DEAR SUSAN: If you think dad would like it you may read him a part or +the whole of this letter. I was afraid I wouldn't write very well and +that he wouldn't like to see it. So I write to you instead. I know you +won't mind. + +Below came the letter. + +DEAR SUSAN: How do you and dad do? I am well and hope you are the +same. + +This is an awfully pretty place with trees and big lawns all around +it, and walks and seats everywhere in the summer, they say. We aren't +sitting outdoors to-day, though. It's only four below! + +We had a jolly trip out. The doctor's great. He spent half his time +talking to me about the things we were seeing out the window. We went +through a wonderful country, and saw lots of interesting things. + +The doctor's daughter was along, too. But she didn't have much to say +on the trip. I've seen quite a lot of her since we've been here, +though, and she's ALL RIGHT. At first I didn't like her very well. It +was her voice, I guess. It reminded me of somebody I didn't like to be +reminded of. But after I got used to it I found she was really very +nice and jolly. She knows lots of games, and we play together a lot +now. She's so different from that girl she sounded like that I don't +mind her voice now. And I don't think she minds (here a rather +unsuccessful erasure showed that "playing with me" had been +substituted for "being with blind folks"). + +She gave me this paper, and told me the folks at home would like a +letter, she knew. That's why I'm writing it. And I guess that's enough +for this time. + +Love to all. KEITH BURTON + +P.S. I'm going to have the operation to-morrow, but they won't know +for quite a while whether it's successful or not, the doctor says. + KEITH + +Susan read this letter, then took it at once to the studio and read it +again aloud. + +"Now ain't that great?" she crowed, as soon as she had finished. + +"Y-yes, but he didn't say much about himself or his treatment," +demurred the man. + +Susan made an impatient gesture. + +"Why, yes, he did, too! Lan' sakes, Mr. Burton, he didn't talk about +nothin' else but himself an' his treatment, all the way through. Oh, I +know he didn't say anything about his occultist treatment, if that's +what you mean. But I didn't do no worryin' about that part. It was the +other part." + +"The other part!" + +"Yes. They're treatin' him as if he wa'n't different an' queer. An' +didn't you notice the way he wrote? Happy as a king tellin' about what +he SAW on the way out, an' the wonderful country they went through. +They're all right--them two are. I shan't do no more worryin' about +Keith. An' her fixin' that paper so cute for him to write on--I +declare I'm that zealous of her I don't know what to do. Why couldn't +_I_ 'a' thought of that?" she sighed, as she rose to leave the room. + +Two days later came a letter from the doctor. The operation had been +performed and, so far as they could judge, all was well, though, as +Keith had written, the real results would not show until the bandages +were removed some time later. + +When the schools opened again in January, Dorothy Parkman came back to +Hinsdale. Susan had been counting the days ever since Christmas, for +she knew Dorothy was coming, and she could scarcely wait to see her. +This time, however, she did not have to tramp through the streets and +stores looking for her, for Miss Dorothy came at once to the house and +rang the bell. + +"I knew you'd want to hear all about Mr. Keith," she smiled brightly +into Susan's eyes. "And I'm glad to report that he's doing all right." + +"Be them bandages off yet? Do you mean--he can see?" demanded Susan +excitedly, leading the way to the sitting-room. + +"Oh, no--no--not that!" cried the girl quickly. "I mean--he's doing +all right so far. It's a week yet before the bandages can be removed, +and even then, he probably won't see much--if at all. There'll have to +be another one--later--father says--maybe two more." + +"Oh!" Susan fell back, plainly disappointed. Then, suddenly, a new +interest flamed into her eyes. + +"An' he ain't sensed yet who you are?" she questioned. + +Miss Dorothy blushed, and Susan noticed suddenly how very pretty she +was. + +"No. Though I must confess that at first, when he heard my voice, he +looked up much startled, and even rose from his seat. But I told him +lots of folks thought I talked like Dorothy Parkman; and I just +laughed and turned it off, and made nothing of it. And so pretty quick +he made nothing of it, too. After that we got along beautifully." + +"I should say you did!" retorted Susan, almost enviously. "An' you +fixin' up that paper so fine for him to write on!" + +Miss Dorothy blushed again--and again Susan noticed how very charming +was the combination of brown eyes and yellow-gold hair. + +"Yes, he did like that paper," smiled the young girl. "He never +mentioned the lines, and neither did I. When I first suggested the +letter home he was all ready to refuse, I could see; but I wouldn't +give him the chance. Before he could even speak I had thrust the paper +into his hands, and I could see the wonder, interest, and joy in his +face as his fingers discovered the pricked lines and followed their +course from edge to edge. But he didn't let ME know he'd found them-- +not much! 'Well, I don't know but they would like a letter,' was all +he said, casually. I knew then that I had won." + +"Well, I should say you had. But HOW did you know how?" cried Susan. + +"Oh, you told me first that I must talk to him as if he were not +blind. Then father told me the same thing. He said lots of his +patients were like that. So I always tried to do it that way. And it's +wonderful how, when you give it a little thought, you can manage to +tell them so much that they can turn about and tell somebody else, +just as if they really had seen it." + +"I know, I know," nodded Susan. "An'--Miss Dorothy"--her voice grew +unsteady--"he really IS goin' to see by an' by, ain't he?" + +The girl's face clouded. + +"They aren't at all sure of that." + +"But they can't tell YET?" Susan had grown a little white. + +"Oh, no, not sure." + +"An' they're goin' to give him all the chances there is?" + +"Certainly. I only spoke because I don't want you to be too +disappointed if--if we lose. You must remember that fully half of the +cases do lose." + +Susan drew a long sigh. Then, determinedly she lifted her chin. + +"Well, I like to think we ain't goin' to belong to that half," she +said. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI + +THE WORRY OF IT + + +There was a letter from the doctor when the bandages were removed. +Daniel Burton began to read the letter, but his eyes blurred and his +hand shook, so that Susan had to take it up where he had dropped it. + +Yet the letter was very short. + +The operation had been as successful, perhaps, as they could expect, +under the circumstances. Keith could discern light now--faintly, to be +sure, but unmistakably. He was well and happy. Meanwhile he was under +treatment for the second operation to come later. But that could not +be performed for some time yet, so they must not lose their patience. +That was all. + +"Well, I s'pose we ought to be glad he can see light even a little," +sighed Susan; "but I'm free to confess I was hopin' he could do a +little more than that." + +"Yes, so was I," said Daniel Burton. And Susan, looking at his face, +turned away without another word. There were times when Susan knew +enough not to talk. + +Then came the days when there were only Keith's letters and an +occasional short note from the doctor to break the long months of +waiting. + +In the Burton homestead at Hinsdale, living was reduced to the +simplest formula possible. On the whole, there was perhaps a little +more money. Dunning tradesmen were not so numerous. But all luxuries, +and some things that were almost necessities, were rigorously left +out. And the money was saved always--for Keith. A lodger, a young law +student, in Keith's old room helped toward defraying the family +expenses. + +Susan had given up trying to sell her "poems." She had become +convinced at last that a cruel and unappreciative editorial wall was +forever to bar her from what she still believed was an eagerly +awaiting public. She still occasionally wrote jingles and talked in +rhyme; but undeniably she had lost her courage and her enthusiasm. As +she expressed it to Mrs. McGuire, she did not feel "a mite like a +gushing siphon inside her now." + +As the summer came and passed, Susan and Mrs. McGuire talked over the +back-yard fence even more frequently. Perhaps because Susan was lonely +without Keith. Perhaps because there was so much to talk about. + +First there was Keith. + +Keith was still under treatment preparatory to the second operation. +He had not responded quite as they had hoped, the doctor said, which +meant that the operation must be postponed for perhaps several months +longer. + +All this Susan talked over with Mrs. McGuire; and there was always, +too, the hushed discussion as to what would happen if, after all, it +failed, and Keith came home hopelessly blind. + +"But even that ain't the worst thing that could happen," maintained +Susan stoutly. "I can tell you Keith Burton ain't goin' to let a +little thing like that floor him!" + +Mrs. McGuire, however, did not echo Susan's optimistic prophecies. But +Mrs. McGuire's own sky just now was overcast, which perhaps had +something to do with it. Mrs. McGuire had troubles of her own. + +It was the summer of 1914, and the never-to-be-forgotten August had +come and passed, firing the match that was destined to set the whole +world ablaze. Mrs. McGuire's eldest son John--of whom she boasted in +season and out and whom she loved with an all-absorbing passion--had +caught the war-fever, gone to Canada, and enlisted. Mrs. McGuire +herself was a Canadian by birth, and all her family still lived there. +She was boasting now more than ever about John; but, proud as she was +of her soldier boy, his going had plunged her into an abyss of doubt +and gloom. + +"He'll never come back, he'll never come back," she moaned to Susan. +"I can just feel it in my bones that he won't." + +"Shucks, a great, strong, healthy boy like John McGuire! Of course, +he'll come back," retorted Susan. "Besides, likely the war'll be all +over with 'fore he gets there, anyhow. An' as for feelin' it in your +bones, Mis' McGuire, that's a very facetious doctrine, an' ain't no +more to be depended upon than my flour sieve for an umbrella. They're +gay receivers every time--bones are. Why, lan' sakes, Mis' McGuire, if +all things happened that my bones told me was goin' to happen, there +wouldn't none of us be livin' by now, nor the sun shinin', nor the +moon moonin'. I found out, after awhile, how they DIDN'T happen half +the time, an' I wrote a poem on it, like this: + + Trust 'em not, them fickle bones, + Always talkin' moans an' groans. + Jest as if inside of you, + Lived a thing could tell you true, + Whether it was goin' to rain, + Whether you would have a pain, + Whether him or you would beat, + Whether you'd have 'nuf to eat! + Bones was give to hold us straight, + Not to tell us 'bout our Fate." + +"Yes, yes, I s'pose so," sighed Mrs. McGuire. "But when I think of +John, my John, lyin' there so cold an' still--" + +"Well, he ain't lyin' there yet," cut in Susan impatiently. "Time +enough to hunt bears when you see their tracks. Mis' McGuire, CAN'T +you see that worryin' don't do no good? You'll have it ALL for +nothin', if he don't get hurt; an' if he does, you'll have all this +extra for nothin', anyway,--that you didn't need till the time came. +Ever hear my poem on worryin'?" + +Without waiting for a reply--Susan never asked such questions with a +view to having them answered--she chanted this: + +"Worry never climbed a hill, + Worry never paid a bill, + Worry never led a horse to water. + Worry never cooked a meal, + Worry never darned a heel, + Worry never did a thing you'd think it oughter!" + +"Yes, yes, I know, I know," sighed Mrs. McGuire again. "But John is +so--well, you don't know my John. Nobody knows John as I do. He'd have +made a big man if he'd lived--John would." + +"'If he'd lived'!" repeated Susan severely. "Well, I never, Mis' +McGuire, if you ain't talkin' already as if he was dead! You don't +have to begin to write his obliquity notice yet, do you?" + +"But he is dead," moaned Mrs. McGuire, catching at the one word in +Susan's remark and paying no attention to the rest. "He's dead to +everything he was goin' to do. He was ambitious,--my John was. He was +always studyin' and readin' books nights an' Sundays an' holidays, +when he didn't have to be in the store. He was takin' a course, you +know." + +"Yes, I know--one of them respondin' schools," nodded Susan. "John's a +clever lad, he is, I'm free to confess." + +Under the sunshine of Susan's appreciation Mrs. McGuire drew a step +nearer. + +"He was studyin' so he could 'mount to somethin'--John was," declared +Mrs. McGuire. "He was goin' to be"--she paused and threw a hurried +look over her shoulder--"he was keepin' it secret, but he won't mind +my tellin' NOW. He was goin' to be a--writer some day, he hoped." + +Susan's instantly alert attention was most flattering. + +"Sho! You don't say! Poems?" + +"I don't know." Mrs. McGuire drew back and spoke a little coldly. Now +that the secret was out, Mrs. McGuire was troubled evidently with +qualms of conscience. "He never said much. He didn't want it talked +about." + +Susan drew a long breath. + +"Yes, I know. 'Tain't so pleasant if folks know--when you can't sell +'em. Now in my case--" + +But Mrs. McGuire, with a hurried word about the beans in her oven, had +hastened into the house. + +Mrs. McGuire was not the only one with whom Susan was having long +talks. September had come bringing again the opening of the schools, +which in turn had brought Miss Dorothy Parkman back to Hinsdale. + +Miss Dorothy was seventeen now, and prettier than ever--in Susan's +opinion. She had been again to her father's home; and Susan never +could hear enough of her visit or of Keith. Nor was Miss Dorothy +evidently in the least loath to talk of her visit--or of Keith. +Patiently, even interestedly, each time she saw Susan, she would +repeat for her the details of Keith's daily life, telling everything +that she knew about him. + +"But I've told you all there is, before," she said laughingly one day +at last, when Susan had stopped her as she was going by the house. +"I've told it several times before." + +"Yes, I know you have," nodded Susan, drawing a long breath; "but I +always get somethin' new in it, just as I do in the Bible, you know. +You always tell me somethin' you hadn't mentioned before. Now, to-day +--you never told me before about them dominoes you an' him played +together." + +"Didn't I?" An added color came into Miss Dorothy's cheeks. "Well, we +played them quite a lot. Poor fellow! Time hung pretty heavily on his +hands, and we HAD to do something for him. There were other games, +too, that we played together." + +"But how can he play dominoes, an' those others, when--when he can't +see?" + +"Oh, the points of the dominoes are raised, of course, and the board +has little round places surrounded by raised borders for him to keep +his dominoes in. The cards are marked with little raised signs in the +corners, and there are dice studded with tiny nailheads. The checker- +board has little grooves to keep the men from sliding. Of course, we +already had all these games, you know. They use them for all father's +patients. But, of course, Keith had to be taught first." + +"And you taught him?" + +"Well, I taught him some of them." The added color was still in Miss +Dorothy's cheeks. + +"An' you told me last week you read to him." + +"Yes, oh, yes. I read to him quite a lot." + +The anxiously puckered frown on Susan's face suddenly dissolved into a +broad smile. + +"Lan' sakes, if that ain't the limit!" she chuckled. + +"Well, what do you mean by that?" bridled Miss Dorothy, looking not +exactly pleased. + +"Nothin'. It's only that I was jest a-thinkin' how you was foolin' +him." + +"Fooling him?" Miss Dorothy was looking decidedly not pleased now. + +"Yes, an' you all the time Dorothy Parkman, an' he not knowin' it." + +"Oh!" The color on Miss Dorothy's face was one pink blush now. Then +she laughed lightly. "After all, do you know?--I hardly ever thought +of that, after the very first. He called me Miss Stewart, of course-- +but lots of folks out there do that. They don't think, or don't know, +about my name being different, you see. The patients, coming and going +all the time, know me as the doctor's daughter, and naturally call me +'Miss Stewart.' So it doesn't seem so queer when Mr. Keith does it." + +"Good!" exclaimed Susan with glowing satisfaction. "An' now here's to +hopin' he won't never find out who you really be!" + +"Is he so very bitter, then, against--Dorothy Parkman?" The girl asked +the question a little wistfully. + +"He jest is," nodded Susan with unflattering emphasis. "If you'd heard +him when he jest persisted that he wouldn't have anybody that was +Dorothy Parkman's father even look at his eyes you'd have thought so, +I guess. An'--why, he even wrote about it 'way back last Christmas--I +mean, when he first told us about you. He said the doctor had a +daughter, an' she was all right; but he didn't like her at all at +first, 'cause her voice kept remindin' him of somebody he didn't want +to be reminded of." + +"Did he really write--THAT?" + +"Them's the identifyin' words," avowed Susan. "So you'll jest have to +keep it secret who you be, you see," she warned her. + +"Yes, I--see," murmured the girl. All the pretty color had quite gone +from her face now, leaving it a little white and strained-looking. +"I'll try--to." + +"Of course, when he gets back his sight he'll find out--that is, Miss +Dorothy, he IS going to get it back, ain't he?" Susan's own face now +had become a little white and strained-looking. + +Miss Dorothy shook her head. + +"I don't know, Susan; but I'm--afraid." + +"Afraid! You don't mean he AIN'T goin' to?" Susan caught Miss +Dorothy's arm in a vise-like grip. + +"No, no, not that; but we aren't--SURE. And--and the symptoms aren't +quite so good as they were," hurried on the girl a bit feverishly. + +"But I thought he could see--light," faltered Susan. + +"He could, at first, but it's been getting dimmer and dimmer, and +now"--the girl stopped and wet her lips--"there's to be a second +operation, you know. Father hopes to have it by Christmas, or before; +but I know father is afraid--that is--he thinks--" + +"He don't like the way things is goin'," cut in Susan grimly. "Ain't +that about it?" + +"I'm afraid it is," faltered Miss Dorothy, wetting her lips again. +"And when I think of that boy--" She turned away her head, leaving her +sentence unfinished. + +"Well, we ain't goin' to think of it till it comes" declared Susan +stoutly. "An' then--well, if it does come, we've all got to set to an' +help him forget it. That's all." + +"Yes, of--course," murmured the girl, turning away again. And this +time she turned quite away and went on down the street, leaving Susan +by the gate alone. + +"Nice girl, an' a mighty pretty one, too," whispered Susan, looking +after the trim little figure in its scarlet cap and sweater. "An' +she's got a good kind heart in her, too, a-carin' like that about that +poor boy's bein'--" + +Susan stopped short. A new look had come to her face--a look of +wonder, questioning, and dawning delight. "Lan' sakes, why hain't I +never thought of that before?" she muttered, her eyes still on the +rapidly disappearing little red figure down the street. "Oh, 'course +they're nothin' but babies now, but by an' by--! Still, if he ever +found out she was Dorothy Parkman, an' of course he'd have to find it +out if he married--Oh, lan' sakes, what fools some folks be!" + +With which somewhat cryptic statement Susan turned and marched +irritably into the house. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII + +DANIEL BURTON TAKES THE PLUNGE + + +Dr. Stewart's second operation on Keith's eyes took place late in +November. It was not a success. Far from increasing his vision, it +lessened it. Only dimly now could he discern light at all. + +In a letter to Daniel Burton, Dr. Stewart stated the case freely and +frankly, yet he declared that he had not given up hope--yet. He had a +plan which, with Mr. Burton's kind permission, he would carry out. He +then went on to explain. + +In Paris there was a noted specialist in whom he had great confidence. +He wished very much that this man could see Keith. To take Keith over +now, however, as war conditions were, would, of course, be difficult +and hazardous. Besides, as he happened to know, this would not be +necessary, for the great man was coming to this country some time in +May. To bring Keith to his attention then would be a simple matter, +and a chance well worth waiting for. Meanwhile, the boy was as +comfortable where he was as he could be anywhere, and, moreover, there +were certain treatments which should still be continued. With Daniel +Burton's kind permission, therefore, the doctor would keep Keith where +he was for the present, pending the arrival of the great specialist. + +It was a bitter blow. For days after the letter came, Daniel Burton +shut himself up in his studio refusing to see any one but Susan, and +almost refusing to see her. Susan, indeed, heart-broken as she was +herself, had no time to indulge her own grief, so busy was she trying +to concoct something that would tempt her employer to break a fast +that was becoming terrifying to her. + +Then came Keith's letter. He wrote cheerfully, hopefully. He told of +new games that he was playing, new things of interest that he was +"seeing." He said nothing whatever about the operation. He did say +that there was a big doctor coming from Paris, whom he was going to +"see" in May, however. That was all. + +When the doctor's letter had come, telling of the failure of the +second operation, Susan had read it and accepted it with sternly +controlled eyes that did not shed one tear. But when Keith's letter +came, not even mentioning the operation, her self-control snapped, and +she burst openly into tears. + +"I don't care," she sobbed, in answer to Daniel Burton's amazed +exclamation. "When I think of the way that blessed boy is holdin' up +his head an' marchin' straight on; an' you an' me here--oh, lan' +sakes, what's the use of TRYIN' to say it!" she despaired, turning and +hurrying from the room. + +In December Dr. Stewart came on again to take his daughter back for +the holidays. He called at once to see Mr. Burton, and the two had a +long conference in the studio, while Susan feverishly moved from room +to room downstairs, taking up and setting down one object after +another in the aimless fashion of one whose fingers are not controlled +by the mind. + +When the doctor had gone, Susan did not wait for Daniel Burton to seek +her out. She went at once to the studio. + +"No, he had nothing new to say about Keith," began the man, answering +the agonized question in her eyes before her lips could frame the +words. + +"But didn't he say NOTHIN'?" + +"Oh, yes, he said a great deal--but it was only a repetition of what +he had said before in the letter." Daniel Burton spoke wearily, +constrainedly. His face had grown a little white. "The doctor bought +the big sofa in the hall downstairs, and the dropleaf table in the +dining-room." + +"Humph! But will he PAY anything for them things?" + +"Yes, he will pay well for them. And--Susan." + +"Yes, sir." Something in the man's face and voice put a curious note +of respect into Susan's manner as sudden as it was unusual. + +"I've been intending to tell you for some time. I--I shall want +breakfast at seven o'clock to-morrow morning. I--I am going to work in +McGuire's store." + +"You are goin' to--what?" Susan's face was aghast. + +"To work, I said," repeated Daniel Burton sharply. "I shall want +breakfast at seven o'clock, Susan." He turned away plainly indicating +that for him the matter was closed. + +But for Susan the matter was not closed. + +"Daniel Burton, you ain't goin' to demean yourself like that!" she +gasped;--"an artistical gentleman like you! Why, I'd rather work my +hands to the bones--" + +"That will do, Susan. You may go." + +And Susan went. There were times when Susan did go. + +But not yet for Susan was the matter closed. Only an hour later Mrs. +McGuire "ran over" with a letter from her John to read to Susan. But +barely had she finished reading the letter aloud, when the real object +of her visit was disclosed by the triumphant: + +"Well, Susan Betts, I notice even an artist has to come down to bein' +a 'common storekeeper' sometimes." + +Susan drew herself up haughtily. + +"Of course, Mis' McGuire, 't ain't for me to pretense that I don't +know what you're inferrin' to. But jest let me tell you this: it don't +make no difference how many potatoes an' molasses jugs an' kerosene +cans Daniel Burton hands over the counter he won't never be jest a +common storekeeper. He'll be THINKIN' flowers an' woods an' sunsets +jest the same. Furthermore an' moreover, in my opinion it's a very +honorary an' praiseful thing for him to do, to go out in the hedges +an' byways an' earn money like that, when, if the world only knew +enough to know a good thing when they see it, they'd be buy in' them +pictures of his, an' not subjugate him to the mystification of earnin' +his bread by the sweat of his forehead." + +"Oh, good gracious me, Susan Betts, how you do run on, when you get +started!" ejaculated Mrs. McGuire impatiently, yet laughingly. "An' I +might have known what you'd say, too, if I'd stopped to think. Well, I +must be goin', anyhow. I only came over to show you the letter from my +John. I'm sure I wish't was him comin' back to his old place behind +the counter instead of your Daniel Burton," she sighed. "I'd buy every +picture he ever painted (if I had the money), if 't would only bring +my John back, away from all those awful bombs an' shells an' shrapnel +that he's always writin' about." + +"Them be nice letters he writes, I'm free to confess," commented Susan +graciously. "Not that they tell so much what he's doin', though; but I +s'pose they're censured, anyhow--all them letters be." + +Mrs. McGuire, her eyes dreamily fixed out the window, nodded her head +slowly. + +"Yes, I s'pose so; but there's a lot left--there's always a lot left. +And everything he writes I can just see. It was always like that with +my John. Let him go downtown an' come back--you'd think he'd been to +the circus, the wonderful things he'd tell me he'd seen on the way. +An' he'd set 'em out an' describe 'em until I could just see 'em +myself! I'll never forget. One day he went to a fire. The old Babcock +house burned, an' he saw it. He was twelve years old. I was sick in +bed, an' he told me about it. I can see him now, standin' at the foot +of the bed, his cheeks red, his eyes sparklin' an' his little hands +flourishin' right an' left in his excitement. As he talked, I could +just see that old house burn. I could hear the shouts of the men, the +roar an' cracklin' of the flames, an' see 'em creepin', creepin', +gainin', gainin'-! Oh, it was wonderful--an' there I was right in my +own bed, all the time. It was just the way he told it. That's why I +know he could have been a writer. He could make others see-- +everything. But now--that's all over now. He'll never be--anything. I +can see him. I can see all that horrible battle-field with the reelin' +men, the flames, the smoke, the burstin' shells, an', oh, God--my +John! Will he ever, ever come back--to me?" + +"There, there, Mis' McGuire, I jest wouldn't--" But Mrs. McGuire, with +a shake of her head, and her eyes half covered with her hand, turned +away and stumbled out of the kitchen. + +Susan, looking after her, drew a long sigh. + + "Worry never climbed a hill, + Worry never-- + +There's some times when it's frank impertinence to tell folks not to +worry," she muttered severely to herself, attacking the piled-up +dishes before her. + +Daniel Burton went to work in McGuire's grocery store the next +morning, after a particularly appetizing breakfast served to him by a +silent, red-eyed, but very attentive Susan. + +"An' 'twas for all the world like a lamb to the slaughter-house," +Susan moaned to the law-student lodger when she met him on the stairs +at eight o'clock that morning. "An' if you want to see a real +slaughter-house, you jest come in here," she beckoned him, leading the +way to the studio. + +"But--but--that is--well--" stammered the young fellow, looking not a +little startled as he followed her, with half-reluctant feet. + +In the studio Susan flourished accusing arms. + +"Look at that, an' that, an' that!" she cried. "Why, it's like jest +any extraordinary common-sense room now, that anybody might have, with +them pictures all put away, an' his easel hid behind the door, an' not +a brush or a cube of paint in sight--an' him dolin' out vinegar an' +molasses down to that old store. I tell you it made me sick, Mr. +Jenkins, sick!" + +"Yes, yes, that's so," murmured Mr. Jenkins, vaguely. + +"Well, it did. Why, it worked me up so I jest sat right down an' made +up a poem on it. I couldn't help it. An' it came easy, too--'most like +the spontaneous combustion kind that I used to write, only I made it +free verse. You know that's all the rage now. Like this," she +finished, producing from somewhere about her person a half-sheet of +note-paper. + + "Alone an' dark + The studio + Waited: + Waited for the sun of day. + But when it rose, + Alas! + No lovely pictures greeted + The fiery gob. + Only their backs showed + White an' sorry an' some dusty. + No easel sprawled long legs + To trip + An' make you slip. + No cubes of pig-lent gray + Or black, + Nor any other color lent brightness + To this dank world. + An' he--the artist? The bright soul who + Bossed this ranch? + Alas! + Doomed to hide his bright talons + In smelly kegs of kerosene + An' molasses brown an' sticky. + Alas, that I should see an' + Know this + Day. + +There, now, ain't that about the way 'tis?" she demanded feelingly. + +"Er--yes, yes, it is. That's so." Mr. Jenkins was backing out of the +room and looking toward the stairway. Mr. Jenkins had been a member of +the Burton household long enough to have learned to take Susan at her +own valuation, with no questions asked. "Yes, that's so," he repeated, +as he plunged down the stairs. + +To Daniel Burton himself Susan made no further protests or even +comments--except the silent comment of eager service with some +favorite dish for every meal. As Christmas drew near, and Daniel +Burton's hours grew longer, Susan still made no audible comment; but +she redoubled her efforts to make him comfortable the few hours left +to him at home. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + +"MISS STEWART" + + +It was just after Christmas that another letter came from Keith. It +was addressed as usual to Susan. Keith had explained in his second +letter that he was always going to write to Susan, so that she might +read it to his father, thus saving him the disagreeableness of seeing +how crooked and uneven some of his lines were. His father had +remonstrated--feebly; but Keith still wrote to Susan. + +Keith had been improving in his writing very rapidly, however, since +those earliest letters, and most of his letters now were models of +even lines and carefully formed characters. But this letter Susan saw +at once was very different. It bore unmistakable marks of haste, +agitation, and lack of care. It began abruptly, after the briefest of +salutations: + +Why didn't you tell me you knew Miss Stewart? She says she knows you +real well, and father, too, and that she's been to the house lots of +times, and that she's going back to Hinsdale next week, and that she +is going to school there this year, and will graduate in June. + +Oh, she didn't tell me all this at once, you bet your sweet life. I +had to worm it out of her little by little. But what I want to know +is, why you folks didn't tell me anything about it--that you knew her, +and all that? But you never said a word--not a word. Neither you nor +dad. But she says she knows dad real well. Funny dad never mentioned +it! + +Miss Stewart sure is a peach of a girl all right and the best ever to +me. She's always hunting up new games for me to play. She's taught me +two this time, and she's read two books to me. There's a new fellow +here named Henty, and we play a lot together. I am well, and getting +along all right. Guess that's all for this time. Love to all. + KEITH +P.S. Now don't forget to tell me why you never said a thing that you +knew Miss Stewart. + K. + +"Well, now I guess the kettle is in the fire, all right!" ejaculated +Susan, folding the letter with hands that shook a little. + +"What do you mean?" asked Daniel Burton. + +"Why, about that girl, of course. He'll find out now she's Dorothy +Parkman. He can't help findin' it out!" "Well, what if he does?" +demanded the man, a bit impatiently. + +"'What if he does?'" repeated Susan, with lofty scorn. "I guess you'll +find what 'tis when that boy does find out she's Dorothy Parkman, an' +then won't have nothin' more to do with her, nor her father, nor her +father's new doctor, nor anything that is hers." + +"Nonsense, Susan, don't be silly," snapped the man, still more +irritably. "'Nor her father, nor her father's new doctor, nor anything +that is hers,' indeed! You sound for all the world as if you were +chanting a catechism! What's the matter? Doesn't the boy like Miss +Dorothy?" + +"Why, Daniel Burton, you know he don't! I told you long ago all about +it, when I explained how we'd got to give her father a resumed name, +so Keith wouldn't know, an'--" + +"Oh, THAT! What she said about not wanting to see blind people? +Nonsense, Susan, that was years ago, when they were children! Why, +Keith's a man, nearly. You're forgetting--he'll be eighteen next June, +Susan." + +"That's all right, Mr. Burton." Susan's lips snapped together grimly +and her chin assumed its most defiant tilt. "I ain't sayin' he ain't. +But there's some cases where age don't make a mite of difference, an' +you'll find this is one of 'em. You mark my words, Daniel Burton. I +have seen jest as big fools at eighteen, an' eighty, for that matter, +as I have at eight. 'T ain't a matter of decree at all. Keith Burton +got it into his head when he was first goin' blind that Dorothy +Parkman would hate to look at him if ever he did get blind; an' he +just vowed an' determined that if ever he did get that way, she +shouldn't see him. Well, now he's blind. An' if you think he's forgot +what Dorothy Parkman said, you'd oughter been with me when she came to +see him with Mazie Sanborn one day, or even when they just called up +to him on the piazza one mornin'." + +"Well, well, very likely," conceded the man irritably; "but I still +must remind you, Susan, that all this was some time ago. Keith's got +more sense now." "Maybe--an' then again maybe not. However, we'll see +--what we will see," she mumbled, as she left the room with a little +defiant toss of her head. + +Susan did not answer Keith's letter at once. Just how she was going to +answer that particular question concerning their acquaintance with +"Miss Stewart" she did not know, nor could she get any assistance from +Daniel Burton on the subject. + +"Why, tell him the truth, of course," was all that Daniel Burton would +answer, with a shrug, in reply to her urgent appeals for aid in the +matter. This, Susan, in utter horror, refused to do. + +"But surely you don't expect to keep it secret forever who she is, do +you?" demanded Daniel Burton scornfully one day. + +"Of course I don't. But I'm going to keep it jest as long as I can," +avowed Susan doggedly. "An' maybe I can keep it--till he gets his +blessed eyes back. I shan't care if he does find out then." + +"I don't think--we'll any of us--mind anything then, Susan," said the +man softly, a little brokenly. And Susan, looking into his face, +turned away suddenly, to hide her own. + +That evening Susan heard that Dorothy Parkman was expected to arrive +in Hinsdale in two days. + +"I'll jest wait, then, an' intervene the young lady my own self," she +mused, as she walked home from the post-office. "This tryin' to settle +Dorothy Parkman's affairs without Dorothy Parkman is like havin' +omelet with omelet left out," she finished, nodding to herself all in +the dark, as she turned in at the Burton gateway. + +Dorothy Parkman came two days later. As was usual now she came at once +to the house. Susan on the watch, met her at the door, before she +could touch the bell. + +"Come in, come in! My, but I'm glad to see you!" exclaimed Susan +fervently, fairly pulling her visitor into the house. "Now tell me +everything---every single thing." + +"Why, there isn't much to tell, Susan. Mr. Keith is about the same, +and--" + +"No, no, I mean--about YOU" interrupted Susan, motioning the girl to a +chair, and drawing her own chair nearer. "About your bein' in Hinsdale +an' knowin' us, an' all that, an' his finding it out." + +"Oh, THAT!" The color flew instantly into Miss Dorothy's cheeks. "Then +he's--he's written you?" + +"Written us! I should say he had! An' he wants to know why we hain't +told him we know you. An', lan' sakes, Miss Dorothy, what can we tell +him?" + +"I--I don't know, Susan." + +"But how'd you get in such a mess? How'd he find out to begin with?" +demanded the woman. + +Miss Dorothy drew a long sigh. "Oh, it was my fault, of course. I-- +forgot. Still, it's a wonder I hadn't forgotten before. You see, +inadvertently, I happened to drop a word about Mr. Burton. 'Do you +know my dad?' he burst out. Then he asked another and another +question. Of course, I saw right away that I must turn it off as if I +supposed he'd known it all the time. It wouldn't do to make a secret +of it and act embarrassed because he'd found it out, for of course +then he'd suspect something wrong right away." + +"Yes, yes, I s'pose so," admitted Susan worriedly. "But, lan' sakes, +look at us! What are we goin' to say? Now he wants to know why we +hain't told him about knowin' you." + +"I don't know, Susan, I don't know." The girl shook her head and +caught her breath a bit convulsively. "Of course, when I first let it +go that I was 'Miss Stewart,' I never realized where it was going to +lead, nor how--how hard it might be to keep it up. I've been expecting +every day he'd find out, from some one there. But he hasn't--yet. Of +course, Aunt Hattie, who keeps house for father, is in the secret, and +SHE'D never give it away. Most of the patients don't know much about +me, anyway. You see, I've never been there much. They just know +vaguely of 'the doctor's daughter,' and they just naturally call her +'Miss Stewart.'" + +"Yes, yes, I see, I see," nodded Susan, again still worriedly. "But +what I'm thinkin' of is US, Miss Dorothy. How are we goin' to get +'round not mentionin' you all this time, without his findin' out who +you be an' demandin' a full exposition of the whole affair. Say, look +a-here, would it be--be very bad if he DID find out you was Dorothy +Parkman?" + +"I'm afraid--it would be, Susan." The girl spoke slowly, a bit +unsteadily. She had gone a little white at the question. + +"Has he SAID anything?" + +"Nothing, only he--When we were talking that day, and he was flinging +out those questions one after another, about Hinsdale, and what I knew +of it, he--he asked if I knew Dorothy Parkman." + +"Miss Dorothy, he didn't!" + +"But he did. It was awful, Susan. I felt like--like--" + +"Of course you did," interposed Susan, her face all sympathy, "a- +sailin' under false premises like that, an' when you were perfectly +innocuous, too, of any sinfulness, an' was jest doing it for his best +good an' peace of mind. Lan' sakes, what a prediction to be in! What +DID you say?" + +"Why, I said yes, of course. I had to say yes. And I tried to turn it +off right away, and not talk any more about it. But that was easy, +anyway, for--for Mr. Keith himself dropped it. But I knew, by the way +he looked, and said 'yes, I know her, too,' in that quiet, stern way +of his, that--that I'd better not let him find out I was she--not if I +wanted to--to stay in the room," she finished, laughing a little +hysterically. + +"Lan' sakes, you don't say!" frowned Susan. + +"Yes; and so that's what makes me know that whatever you do, you +mustn't let him know that I am Dorothy Parkman," cried the girl +feverishly; "not now--not until he's seen the Paris doctor, for +there's no knowing what he'd do. He'd be so angry, you see. He'd never +forgive me, for on top of all the rest is the deceit--that I've been +with him all these different times, and let him call me 'Miss +Stewart.'" + +"But how can we do that?" demanded Susan. + +"Why, just turn it off lightly. Say, of course, you know me; and seem +surprised that you never happened to mention it before. Tell him, oh, +yes, I come quite often to tell you and Mr. Burton how he's getting +along, and all that. Just make nothing of it--take it as a matter of +course, not worth mentioning. See? Then go on and talk about something +else. That'll fix it all right, I'm sure, Susan." + +"Hm-m; maybe so, an' then again maybe not," observed Susan, with +frowning doubt. "As I was tellin' Mr. Burton this mornin' we've got to +be 'specially careful about Keith jest now. It's the most +hypercritical time there can be--with him waitin' to see that big +doctor, an' all--an' he mustn't be upset, no matter what happens, nor +how many white lies we have to prognosticate here at home." + +"I guess that's so, Susan." Miss Dorothy's eyes were twinkling now. +"And, by the way, where is Mr. Burton? I haven't seen him yet." + +"He ain't here." + +"You don't mean he has gone out of town?" The girl had looked up in +surprise at the crisp terseness of Susan's reply. + +"Oh, no, he's--in Hinsdale." + +"Painting any new pictures these days?" Miss Dorothy was on her feet +to go. She asked the question plainly not for information, but to fill +the embarrassing pause that Susan's second reply had brought to the +conversation. + +"No, he ain't," spoke up Susan with a vehemence as disconcerting as it +was sudden. "He ain't paintin' nothin', an' he ain't drawin' nothin' +neither--only molasses an' vinegar an' kerosene. He's clerkin' down to +McGuire's grocery store, if you want to know. That's where he is." + +"Why--SUSAN!" + +"Yes, I know. You don't have to say nothin', Miss Dorothy. Besides, I +wouldn't let you say it if you did. I won't let nobody say it but me. +But I will say this much. When folks has set one foot in the cemetery, +an' a lame one at that, an' can't see nor hear nor think straight, I +don't think it's no hilarious offense to wish they'd hurry up an' get +to where they could have all them handy facilities back again, an' +leave their money to folks what has got their full complaint of +senses, ready to enjoy life, if they get a chance. Oh, yes, I know you +don't know what I'm talkin' about, an' perhaps it's jest as well you +don't, Miss Dorothy. I hadn't oughter said it, anyhow. Well, I s'pose +I've got to go write that letter to Keith now. Seein' as how you've +come I can't put it off no longer. Goodness only knows, though, what +I'm goin' to say," she sighed, as her visitor nodded back a wistful- +eyed good-bye. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX + +A MATTER OF LETTERS + + +Susan said afterward, in speaking of that spring, that "'twas nothin' +but jest one serious of letters." And, indeed, life did seem to be +mostly made up of letters. + +At the sanatorium Keith was waiting for spring and the new doctor; and +that the waiting was proving to be a little nerve-racking was proved +by the infrequency of his letters home, and the shortness and +uncommunicativeness of such as did come. + +Letters to him from Hinsdale were longer and were invariably bright +and cheery. Yet they did not really tell so much, after all. To be +sure, they did contain frequent reference to "your Miss Stewart," and +gave carefully casual accounts of what she did and said. In the very +first letter Susan had hit upon the idea of always referring to the +young lady as "your Miss Stewart." + +"Then we won't be tellin' no lies," she had explained to Mr. Burton, +'"cause she IS his 'Miss Stewart.' See? She certainly don't belong to +no one else under that name--that's sure!" + +But however communicative as regards "Miss Stewart" the letters were, +they were very far from that as regarded some other matters. For +instance: neither in Daniel Burton's letters, nor in Susan's, was +there any reference to the new clerk in McGuire's grocery store. So +far as anything that Keith knew to the contrary, his father was still +painting unsalable pictures in the Burton home-stead studio. + +But even these were not all the letters that spring. There were the +letters of John McGuire from far-away France--really wonderful +letters--letters that brought to the little New England town the very +breath of the battle-field itself, the smell of its smoke, the shrieks +of its shells. And with Mr. Burton, with Susan, with the whole +neighborhood indeed, Mrs. McGuire shared them. They were even printed +occasionally in the town's weekly newspaper. And they were talked of +everywhere, day in and day out. No wonder, then, that, to Susan, the +spring seemed but a "serious of letters." + +It was in May that the great Paris doctor was expected; but late in +April came a letter from Dr. Stewart saying that, owing to war +conditions, the doctor had been delayed. He would not reach this +country now until July--which meant two more months of weary waiting +for Keith and for Keith's friends at home. + +It was just here that Susan's patience snapped. + +"When you get yourself screwed up to stand jest so much, an' then they +come along with jest a little more, somethin's got to break, I tell +you. Well, I've broke." + +Whether as a result of the "break" or not, Susan did not say, neither +did she mention whether it was to assuage her own grief or to +alleviate Keith's; but whatever it was, Susan wrote these verses and +sent them to Keith: + + BY THE DAY + + When our back is nigh to breakin', + An' our strength is nearly gone, + An' along there comes the layin' + Of another burden on-- + + If we'll only jest remember, + No matter what's to pay, + That 'tisn't yet December, + An' we're livin' by the day. + +'Most any one can stand it-- + What jest TO-DAY has brought. + It's when we try to lump it, + An' take it by the lot! + + Why, any back would double, + An' any legs'll bend, + If we pile on all the trouble + Meant to last us till the end! + + So if we'll jest remember, + Half the woe from life we'll rob + If we'll only take it "by the day," + An' not live it "by the job." + +"Of course that ''tisn't yet December' is poem license, and hain't +really got much sense to it," wrote Susan in the letter she sent with +the verses. "I put it in mostly to rhyme with 'remember.' (There +simply wasn't a thing to rhyme with that word!) But, do you know, +after I got it down I saw it really could mean somethin', after all-- +kind of diabolical-like for the end of life, you know, like December +is the end of the year. + +"Well, anyhow, they done me lots of good, them verses did, an' I hope +they will you." + +In June Dorothy Parkman was graduated from the Hinsdale Academy. Both +Mr. Burton and Susan attended the exercises, though not together. Then +Susan sat down and wrote a glowing account of the affair to Keith, +dilating upon the fine showing that "your Miss Stewart" made. + +"It can't last forever, of course--this subtractin' Miss Stewart's +name for Dorothy Parkman," she said to Mr. Burton, when she handed him +the letter to mail. "But I'm jest bound an' determined it shall last +till that there Paris doctor gets his hands on him. An' she ain't +goin' back now to her father's for quite a spell--Miss Dorothy, I +mean," further explained Susan. "I guess she don't want to take no +chances herself of his findin' out--jest yet," declared Susan, with a +sage wag of her head. "Anyhow, she's had an inspiration to go see a +girl down to the beach, an' she's goin'. So we're safe for a while. +But, oh, if July'd only hurry up an' come!" + +And yet, when July came-- + +They were so glad, afterward, that Dr. Stewart wrote the letter that +in a measure prepared them for the bad news. He wrote the day before +the operation. He said that the great oculist was immensely interested +in the case and eager to see what he could do--though he could hold +out no sort of promise that he would be able to accomplish the desired +results. Dr. Stewart warned them, therefore, not to expect anything-- +though, of course, they might hope. Hard on the heels of the letter +came the telegram. The operation had been performed--and had failed, +they feared. They could not tell surely, however, until the bandages +were removed, which would be early in August. But even if it had +failed, there was yet one more chance, the doctor wrote. He would say +nothing about that, however, until he was obliged to. + +In August he wrote about it. He was obliged to. The operation had been +so near a failure that they might as well call it that. The Paris +oculist, however, had not given up hope. There was just one man in the +world who might accomplish the seemingly impossible and give back +sight to Keith's eyes--at least a measure of sight, he said. This man +lived in London. He had been singularly successful in several of the +few similar cases known to the profession. Therefore, with their kind +permission, the great Paris doctor would take Keith back with him to +his brother oculist in London. He would like to take ship at once, as +soon as arrangements could possibly be made. There would be delay +enough, anyway, as it was. So far as any question of pay was +concerned, the indebtedness would be on their side entirely if they +were privileged to perform the operation, for each new case of this +very rare malady added knowledge of untold value to the profession, +hence to humanity in general. He begged, therefore, a prompt word of +permission from Keith's father. + +"Don't you give it, don't you give it!" chattered Susan, with white +lips, when the proposition was made clear to her. + +"Why, Susan, I thought you'd be willing to try anything, ANYTHING--for +Keith's sake." + +"An' so I would, sir, anything in season. But not this. Do you think +I'd set that blessed boy afloat on top of them submarines an' gas- +mines, an' to go to London for them German Zepherin's to rain down +bombs an' shrapnel on his head, an' he not bein' able to see a thing +to dodge 'em when he sees 'em comin'? Why, Daniel Burton, I'm ashamed +of you--to think of it, for a minute!" + +"There, there, Susan, that will do. You mean well, I know; but this is +a matter that I shall have to settle for myself, for myself," he +muttered with stern dignity, rising to his feet. Yet when he left the +room a moment later, head and shoulders bowed, he looked so old and +worn that Susan, gazing after him, put a spasmodic hand to her throat. + +"An' I jest know I'm goin' to lose 'em both now," she choked as she +turned away. + +Keith went to London. Then came more weeks of weary, anxious waiting. +Letters were not so regular now, nor so frequent. Definite news was +hard to obtain. Yet in the end it came all too soon--and it was +piteously definite. + +Keith was coming home. The great London doctor, too, had--failed. + + + + +CHAPTER XX + +WITH CHIN UP + + +Keith came in April. The day before he was expected, Susan, sweeping +off the side porch, was accosted by Mrs. McGuire. + +It was the first warm spring-like day, and Mrs. McGuire, bareheaded +and coatless, had opened the back-yard gate and was picking her way +across the spongy turf. + +"My, but isn't this a great day, Susan!" she called, with an ecstatic, +indrawn breath. "I only wish it was as nice under foot." + +"Hain't you got no rubbers on?" Susan's disapproving eyes sought Mrs. +McGuire's feet. + +Mrs. McGuire laughed lightly. + +"No. That's the one thing I leave off the first possible minute. Some +way, I feel as if I was helpin' along the spring." + +"Humph! Well, I should help along somethin' 'sides spring, I guess, if +I did it. Besides, it strikes me rubbers ain't the only thing you're +leavin' off." Susan's disapproving eyes had swept now to Mrs. +McGuire's unprotected head and shoulders. + +"Oh, I'm not cold. I love it. As if this glorious spring sunshine +could do any one any harm! Susan, it's LIEUTENANT McGuire, now! I came +over to tell you. My John's been promoted." + +"Sho, you don't say! Ain't that wonderful, now?" Susan's broom stopped +in midair, + +"Not when you know my John!" The proud mother lifted her head a +little. "'For bravery an' valiant service'--Lieutenant McGuire! Oh +Susan, Susan, but I'm the proud woman this mornin'!" + +"Yes, of course, of course, I ain't wonderin' you be!" Susan drew a +long sigh and fell to sweeping again. + +Mrs. McGuire, looking into Susan's face, came a step nearer. Her own +face sobered. + +"An' me braggin' like this, when you folks-! I know--you're thinkin' +of that poor blind boy. An' it's just to-morrow that he comes, isn't +it?" + +Susan nodded dumbly. + +"An' it's all ended now an' decided--he can't ever see, I s'pose," +went on Mrs. McGuire. "I heard 'em talkin' down to the store last +night. It seems terrible." + +"Yes, it does." Susan was sweeping vigorously now, over and over again +in the same place. + +"I wonder how--he'll take it." + +Susan stopped sweeping and turned with a jerk. + +"Take it? He's got to take it, hain't he?" she demanded fiercely. +"He's GOT TO! An' things you've got to do, you do. That's all. You'll +see. Keith Burton ain't no quitter. He'll take it with his head up an' +his shoulders braced. I know. You'll see. Don't I remember the look on +his blessed face that day he went away, an' stood on them steps there, +callin' back his cheery good-bye?" + +"But, Susan, there was hope then, an' there isn't any now--an' you +haven't seen him since. You forget that." + +"No, I don't," retorted Susan doggedly. "I ain't forgettin' nothin'. +'But you'll see!" + +"An' he's older. He realizes more. Why, he must be--How old is he, +anyway?" + +"He'll be nineteen next June." + +"Almost a man. Poor boy, poor boy--an' him with all these years of +black darkness ahead of him! I tell you, Susan, I never appreciated my +eyes as I have since Keith lost his. Seems as though anybody that's +got their eyes hadn't ought to complain of--anything. I was thinkin' +this mornin', comin' over, how good it was just to SEE the blue sky +an' the sunshine an' the little buds breakin' through their brown +jackets. Why, Susan, I never realized how good just seein' was--till I +thought of Keith, who can't never see again." + +"Yes. Well, I've got to go in now, Mis' McGuire. Good-bye." + +Words, manner, and tone of voice were discourtesy itself; but Mrs. +McGuire, looking at Susan's quivering face, brimming eyes, and set +lips, knew it for what it was and did not mistake it for--discourtesy. +But because she knew Susan would prefer it so, she turned away with a +light "Yes, so've I. Good-bye!" which gave no sign that she had seen +and understood. + +Dr. Stewart came himself with Keith to Hinsdale and accompanied him to +the house. It had been the doctor's own suggestion that neither the +boy's father nor Susan should meet them at the train. Perhaps the +doctor feared for that meeting. Naturally it would not be an easy one. +Naturally too, he did not want to add one straw to Keith's already +grievous burden. So he had written: + +I will come to the house. As I am a little uncertain as to the train I +can catch from Boston, do not try to meet me at the station. + +"Jest as if we couldn't see through that subterranean!" Susan had +muttered to herself over the dishes that morning. "I guess he knows +what train he's goin' to take all right. He jest didn't want us to +meet him an' make a scenic at the depot. I wonder if he thinks I +would! Don't he think I knows anything?" + +But, after all, it was very simple, very quiet, very ordinary. Dr. +Stewart rang the bell and Susan went to the door. And there they +stood: Keith, big and strong and handsome (Susan had forgotten that +two years could transform a somewhat awkward boy into so fine and +stalwart a youth); the doctor, pale, and with an apprehensive +uncertainty in his eyes. + +"Well, Susan, how are you?" Keith's voice was strong and steady, and +the outstretched hand gripped hers with a clasp that hurt. + +Then, in some way never quite clear to her, Susan found herself in the +big living-room with Keith and the doctor and Daniel Burton, all +shaking hands and all talking at once. They sat down then, and their +sentences became less broken, less incoherent. But they said only +ordinary things about the day, the weather, the journey home, John +McGuire, the war, the President's message, the entry of the United +States into the conflict. There was nothing whatever said about eyes +that could see or eyes that could not see, or operations that failed. + +And by and by the doctor got up and said that he must go. To be sure, +the good-byes were a little hurriedly spoken, and the voices were at a +little higher pitch than was usual; and when the doctor had gone, +Keith and his father went at once upstairs to the studio and shut the +door. + +Susan went out into the kitchen then and took up her neglected work. +She made a great clatter of pans and dishes, and she sang lustily at +her "mad song," and at several others. But every now and then, between +songs and rattles, she would stop and listen intently; and twice she +climbed halfway up the back stairs and stood poised, her breath +suspended, her anxious eyes on that closed studio door. + +Yet supper that night was another very ordinary occurrence, with Keith +and his father talking of the war and Susan waiting upon them with a +cheerfulness that was almost obtrusive. + +In her own room that night, however, Susan addressed an imaginary +Keith, all in the dark. + +"You're fine an' splendid, an' I love you for it, Keith, my boy," she +choked; "but you don't fool your old Susan. Your chin is up, jest as I +said 'twould be, an' you're marchin' straight ahead. But inside, your +heart is breakin'. Do you think I don't KNOW? But we ain't goin' to +let each other KNOW we know, Keith, my boy. Not much we ain't! An' I +guess if you can march straight ahead with your chin up, the rest of +us can, all right. We'll see!" + +And Susan was singing again the next morning when she did her +breakfast dishes. + +At ten o'clock Keith came into the kitchen. + +"Where's dad, Susan? He isn't in the studio and I've looked in every +room in the house and I can't find him anywhere." Keith spoke with the +aggrieved air of one who has been deprived of his just rights. + +Susan's countenance changed. "Why, Keith, don't you--that is, your +father--Didn't he tell you?" stammered Susan. + +"Tell me what?" + +"Why, that--that he was goin' to be away." + +"No, he didn't. What do you mean? Away where? How long?" + +"Why, er--working." + +"Sketching?--in this storm? Nonsense, Susan! Besides, he'd have taken +me. He always took me. Susan, what's the matter? Where IS dad?" A note +of uncertainty, almost fear, had crept into the boy's voice. "You're +keeping--SOMETHING from me." + +Susan caught her breath and threw a swift look into Keith's unseeing +eyes. Then she laughed, hysterically, a bit noisily. + +"Keepin' somethin' from you? Why, sure we ain't, boy! Didn't I jest +tell you? He's workin' down to McGuire's." + +"WORKING! Down to MCGUIRE'S!" Keith plainly did not yet understand. + +"Sure! An' he's got a real good position, too." Susan spoke jauntily, +enthusiastically. + +"But the McGuires never buy pictures," frowned Keith, "or want--" He +stopped short. Face, voice, and manner underwent a complete change. +"Susan, you don't mean that dad is CLERKING down there behind that +grocery counter!" + +Susan saw and recognized the utter horror and dismay in Keith's lace, +and quailed before it. But she managed in some way to keep her voice +still triumphant. + +"Sure he is! An' he gets real good wages, too, an'--" But Keith with a +low cry had gone. + +Before the noon dinner, however, he appeared again at the kitchen +door. His face was very white now. + +"Susan, how long has dad been doing this?" + +"Oh, quite a while. Funny, now! Hain't he ever told you?" + +"No. But there seem to be quite a number of things that you people +haven't told me." + +Susan winced, but she still held her ground jauntily. + +"Oh, yes, quite a while," she nodded cheerfully. "An' he gets-" + +"But doesn't he paint any more--at all?" interrupted the boy sharply. + +"Why, no; no, I don't know that he does," tossed Susan airily. "An' of +course, if he's found somethin' he likes better--" + +"Susan, you don't have to talk like that to me" interposed Keith +quietly. "I understand, of course. There are some things that can be +seen without--eyes." + +"Oh, but honest, Keith, he--" But once again Keith had gone and Susan +found herself talking to empty air. + +When Susan went into the dining-room that evening to wait at dinner, +she went with fear and trepidation, and she looked apprehensively into +the faces of the two men sitting opposite each other. But in the +kitchen, a few minutes later, she muttered to herself: + +"Pooh! I needn't have worried. They've got sense, both of 'em, an' +they know that what's got to be has got to be. That's all. An' that it +don't do no good to fuss. I needn't have worried." + +But Susan did worry. She did not like the look on Keith's face. She +did not like the nervous twitching of his hands. She did not like the +exaggerated cheerfulness of his manner. + +And Keith WAS cheerful. He played solitaire with his marked cards and +whistled. He worked at his raised-picture puzzles and sang snatches of +merry song. He talked with anybody who came near him--talked very fast +and laughed a great deal. But behind the whistling and the singing and +the laughter Susan detected a tense strain and nervousness that she +did not like. And at times, when she knew Keith thought himself alone, +there was an expression on his face that disturbed Susan not a little. + +But because, outwardly, it was all "cheerfulness," Susan kept her +peace; but she also kept her eyes on Keith. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI + +THE LION + + +Keith had not been home a week before it was seen that Hinsdale was +inclined to make a lion of the boy. + +Women brought him jelly and fruit, and men clapped him on the shoulder +and said, "How are you, my boy?" in voices that were not quite steady. +Young girls brought him flowers, and asked Susan if they could not +read or sing or do SOMETHING to amuse him. Children stood about the +gate and stared, talking in awe-struck whispers, happy if they could +catch a glimpse of his face at the window. + +A part of this Susan succeeded in keeping from Keith--Susan had a +well-founded belief that Keith would not care to be a lion. But a +great deal of it came to his knowledge, of course, in spite of +anything she could do. However, she told herself that she need not +have worried, for if Keith had recognized it for what it was, he made +no sign; and even Susan herself could find no fault with his behavior. +He was cordial, cheery, almost gay, outwardly. But inwardly-- + +Susan was still keeping her eyes on Keith. + +Mrs. McGuire came often to see Keith. She said she knew he would want +to hear John's letters. And there were all the old ones, besides the +new ones that came from time to time. She brought them all, and read +them to him. She talked about the young soldier, too, a great deal, to +the blind boy--She explained to Susan that she wanted to do everything +she could to get him out of himself and interest him in the world +outside; and that she didn't know any better way to do it than to tell +him of these brave soldiers who were doing something so really worth +while in the world. + +"An' he's so interested--the dear boy!" she concluded, with a sigh. +"An' so brave! I think he's the bravest thing I ever saw, Susan +Betts." + +"Yes, he is--brave," said Susan, a little shortly--so shortly that +Mrs. McGuire opened her eyes a bit, and wondered why Susan's lips had +snapped tight shut in that straight, hard line. + +"But what ails the woman?" she muttered to herself, vexedly, as she +crossed the back yard to her own door. "Wasn't she herself always +braggin' about his bein' so brave? Humph! There's no such thing as +pleasin' some folks, it seems!" finished Mrs. McGuire as she entered +her own door. + +But Mrs. McGuire was not the only frequent caller. There was Mazie +Sanborn. + +Mazie began by coming every two or three days with flowers and fudge. +Then she brought the latest novel one day and suggested that she read +it to Keith. + +Susan was skeptical of this, even fearful. She had not forgotten +Keith's frenzied avoidance of such callers in the old days. But to her +surprise now Keith welcomed Mazie joyously--so joyously that Susan +began to suspect that behind the joyousness lay an eagerness to +welcome anything that would help him to forget himself. + +She was the more suspicious of this during the days that followed, as +she saw this same nervous eagerness displayed every time any one +called at the house. Susan's joy then at Keith's gracious response to +visitors' attentions changed to a vague uneasiness. Behind and beyond +it all lay an intangible something upon which Susan could not place +her finger, but which filled her heart with distrust. And so still she +kept her eyes on Keith. + +In June Dorothy Parkman came to Hinsdale. She came at once to see +Susan. But she would only step inside the hall, and she spoke low and +hurriedly, looking fearfully toward the closed doors beyond the +stairway. + +"I HAD to come--to see how he was," she began, a little breathlessly. +"And I wanted to ask you if you thought I could do any good or--or be +any help to him, either as Miss Stewart or Dorothy Parkman. Only I--I +suppose I would HAVE to be Dorothy Parkman now. I couldn't keep the +other up forever, of course. But I don't know how to tell--" She +stopped, and looked again fearfully toward the closed doors. "Susan, +how--how IS he?" she finished unsteadily. + +"He's well--very well." + +"He sees people--Mazie says he sees everybody now. + +'Yes, oh, yes, he sees people." + +'That's why I thought perhaps he wouldn't mind ME now--I mean the real +me," faltered the girl wistfully. "Maybe." Susan's sigh and frown +expressed doubt. + +"But he's real brave," challenged the girl quickly. "Mazie SAID he +was." + +"I know. Everybody says--he's brave." There was an odd constraint in +Susan's voice, but the girl was too intent on her own problem to +notice it. + +"And that's why I hoped--about me, you know--that he wouldn't mind-- +now. And, of course, it can't make any difference--about his eyes, for +he doesn't need father, or--or any one now." Her voice broke. "Oh, +Susan, I want to help, some way, if I can! WOULD he see me, do you +think?" + +"He ought to. He sees everybody else." + +"I know. Mazie says--" + +"Does Mazie know about you?" interrupted Susan. "I mean, about your +being 'Miss Stewart'?" + +"A little, but not much. I told her once that he 'most always called +me 'Miss Stewart,' but I never made anything of it, and I never told +her how much I saw of him out home. Some way, I--" She stopped short, +with a quick indrawing of her breath. In the doorway down the hall +stood Keith. + +"Susan, I thought I heard--WAS Miss Stewart here?" he demanded +excitedly. + +With only the briefest of hesitations and a half-despairing, half- +relieved look into Susan's startled eyes, the young girl hurried +forward. + +"Indeed I'm here," she cried gayly, giving a warm clasp to his eagerly +outstretched hand "How do you do? Susan was just saying--." + +But Susan was gone with upflung hands and a look that said "No, you +don't rake me into this thing, young lady!" as plainly as if she had +spoken the words themselves. + +In the living-room a minute later, Keith began eager questioning. + +"When did you come?" + +"Yesterday." + +"And you came to see me the very next day! Weren't you good? You knew +how I wanted to see you." + +"Oh, but I didn't," she laughed a little embarrassedly. "You're at +home now, and you have all your old friends, and--" + +"But they're not you. There's not any one like you," cut in the youth +fervently. "And now you're going to stay a long time, aren't you?" + +"Y-yes, several weeks, probably." + +"Good! And you'll come every day to see me?" + +"W-well, as to that-" + +"It's too much to ask, of course," broke off Keith contritely. "And, +truly, I don't want to impose on you." + +"No, no, it isn't that," protested the girl quickly. "It's only--There +are so many--" + +"But I told you there isn't anybody like you, Miss Stewart. There +isn't any one here that UNDERSTANDS--like you. And it was you who +first taught me to do--so many things." His voice faltered. + +[Illustration: "YOU'VE HELPED MORE--THAN YOU'LL EVER KNOW"] + +He paused, wet his lips, then plunged on hurriedly. "Miss Stewart, I +don't say this sort of thing very often. I never said it before--to +anybody. But I want you to know that I understood and appreciated just +what you were doing all those weeks for me out there at the +sanatorium. And it was the WAY you did it, with never a word or a hint +that I was different. You did things, and you made me do things, +without reminding me all the time that I was blind. I shall never +forget that first day when you told me dad would want to hear from me; +and then, before I could say a word, you put that paper in my hands, +and my fingers fell on those lines that I could feel. And how I +blessed you for not TELLING me those lines were there! Don't you see? +Everybody here, that comes to see me, TELLS me--the lines are there." + +"Yes, I--know." The girl's voice was low, a little breathless. + +"And that's why I need you so much. If anybody in the whole world can +make me forget for a minute, you can. You will come?" + +"Why, of course, I'll come, and be glad to. You know I will. And I'm +so glad if I've helped--any!" + +"You've helped more--than you'll ever know. But, come--look! I've got +a dandy new game here." And Keith, very obviously to hide the shake in +his voice and the emotion in his face, turned gayly to a little stand +near him and picked up a square cardboard box. + +Half an hour later, Dorothy Parkman, passing through the hall on her +way to the outer door, was waylaid by Susan. + +"Sh-h! Don't speak here, but come with me," she whispered, leading the +way through the diningroom. In the kitchen she stopped and turned +eagerly. "Well, did you tell him?" she demanded. + +Miss Dorothy shook her head, mutely, despairingly. + +"You mean he don't know yet that you're Dorothy Parkman?" + +"I mean just that." + +"But, child alive, he'll find out--he can't help finding out--now." + +"I know it. But I just couldn't tell him--I COULDN'T, Susan. I tried +to do it two or three times. Indeed, I did. But the words just +wouldn't come. And now I don't know when I can tell him." + +"But he was tickled to death to see you. He showed it, Miss Dorothy." + +"I know." A soft pink suffused the young girl's face. "But it was +'Miss Stewart' he was glad to see, not Dorothy Parkman. And, after the +things he said--" She stopped and looked back over her shoulder toward +the room she had just left. + +"But, Miss Dorothy, don't you see? It'll be all right, now. You've +SHOWN him that you don't mind being with blind folks a mite. So now he +won't care a bit when he knows you are Dorothy Parkman." + +But the girl shook her head again. + +"Yes, I know. He might not mind that part, PERHAPS; but I know he'd +mind the deceit all these long months, and it wouldn't be easy to--to +make him understand. He'd never forgive it--I know he wouldn't--to +think I'd taken advantage of his not being able to see." + +"Nonsense! Of course he would." + +"He wouldn't. You don't know. Just to-day he said something about-- +about some one who had tried to deceive him in a little thing, because +he was blind; and I could see how bitter he was." + +"But what ARE you goin' to do?" + +"I don't know, Susan. It's harder than ever now," almost moaned the +girl. + +"You're COMIN' AGAIN?" + +"Yes, oh, yes. I shall come as long as he'll let me. I know he wants +me to. I know I HAVE helped a little. He spoke--beautifully about that +to-day. But, whether, after he finds out--" Her voice choked into +silence and she turned her head quite away. + +"There, there, dear, don't you fret," Susan comforted her. "You jest +go home and think no more about it. + + When thinkin' won't mend it, + Then thinkin' won't end it. + +So what's the use? When you get ready, you jest come again; an' you +keep a-comin', too. It'll all work out right. You see if it don't." + +"Thank you, Susan. Oh, I'll come as long as I can," sighed the girl, +turning to go. "But I'm not so sure how it'll turn out," she finished +with a wistful smile over her shoulder as she opened the door. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII + +HOW COULD YOU, MAZIE? + + +As Miss Dorothy herself had said, it could not, of course, continue. +She came once, and once again to see Keith; and in spite of her +efforts to make her position clear to him, her secret still remained +her own. Then, on the third visit, the dreaded disclosure came, +naturally, and in the simplest, most unexpected way; yet in a way that +would most certainly have been the last choice of Miss Dorothy herself +could she have had aught to say about it. + +The two, Keith and Dorothy, had had a wonderful hour over a book that +Dorothy had brought to read. They had been sitting on the porch, and +Dorothy had risen to go when there came a light tread on the front +walk and Mazie Sanborn tripped up the porch steps. + +"Well, Dorothy Parkman, is this where you were?" she cried gayly. "I +was hunting all over the house for you half an hour ago." + +"DOROTHY PARKMAN!" Keith was on his feet. His face had grown very +white. + +Dorothy, too, her eyes on Keith's face, had grown very white; yet she +managed to give a light laugh, and her voice matched Mazie's own for +gayety. + +"Were you? Well, I was right here. But I'm going now." + +"You! but--Miss Stewart!" Keith's colorless lips spoke the words just +above his breath. + +"Why, Keith Burton, what's the matter?" laughed Mazie. "You look as if +you'd seen a ghost. I mean--oh, forgive that word, Keith," she broke +off in light apology. "I'm always forgetting, and talking as if you +could really SEE. But you looked so funny, and you brought out that +'Dorothy Parkman' with such a surprised air. Just as if you didn't +ever call her that in the old school days, Keith Burton! Oh, Dorothy +told me you called her 'Miss Stewart' a lot now; but--" + +"Yes, I have called her 'Miss Stewart' quite a lot lately," interposed +Keith, in a voice so quietly self-controlled that even Dorothy herself +was almost deceived. But not quite. Dorothy saw the clenched muscles +and white knuckles of his hands as he gripped the chair-back before +him; and she knew too much to expect him to offer his hand in good- +bye. So she backed away, and she still spoke lightly, inconsequently, +though she knew her voice was shaking, as she made her adieus. + +"Well, good-bye, I must be going now, sure. I'll be over to-morrow, +though, to finish the book. Good-bye." + +"Good-bye," said Keith. + +And Dorothy wondered if Mazie noticed that he quite omitted a polite +"Come again," and if Mazie saw that as he said the terse "Good-bye" he +put both hands suddenly and resolutely behind his back. Dorothy saw +it, and at home, long hours later she was still crying over it. + +She went early to the Burtons' the next forenoon. + +"I came to finish the book I was reading to Mr. Keith," she told Susan +brightly, as her ring was answered. "I thought I'd come early before +anybody else got here." + +She would have stepped in, but Susan's ample figure still barred the +way. + +"Well, now, that's too bad!" Susan's voice expressed genuine concern +and personal disappointment. "Ain't it a shame? Keith said he wa'n't +feelin' nohow well this mornin', an' that he didn't want to see no +one. An' under no circumstances not to let no one in to see him. But +maybe if I told him't was you--" + +"No, no, don't--don't do that!" cried the girl hurriedly. "I--I'll +come again some other time." + +On the street a minute later she whispered tremulously: "He did it on +purpose, of course. He KNEW I would come this morning! But he can't +keep it up forever! He'll HAVE to see me some time. And when he does-- +Oh, if only Mazie Sanborn hadn't blurted it out like that! Why didn't +I tell him? Why didn't I tell him? But I will tell him. He can't keep +this up forever." + +When on a second and a third and a fourth morning, however, Dorothy +had found Susan's figure barring the way, and had received the same +distressed "He says he won't see no one, Miss Dorothy," from Susan's +plainly troubled lips, Dorothy began to think Keith did mean to keep +it up forever. + +"But what IS it, Susan?" she faltered. "Is he sick, really sick?" + +"I don't know, Miss Dorothy," frowned Susan. "But I don't like the +looks of it, anyhow. He says he ain't sick--not physicianly sick; but +he jest don't want to talk an' see folks. An' he's been like that +'most a week now. An' I'm free to confess I don't like it." + +"But what does he do--all day?" asked the girl. + +"Nothin', that I can see," sighed Susan profoundly. "Oh, he plays that +solitary some, an' putters a little with some of his raised books; but +mostly he jest sits still an' thinks. An' I don't like it. If only his +father was here. But with him gone peddlin' molasses, an' no one +'lowed into the house, there ain't anything for him to do but to +think. An' 'tain't right nor good for him. I've watched him an' I +know." + +"But he used to see people, Susan." + +"I know it. He saw everybody." + +"Do you know why he won't--now?" asked the girl a little faintly. + +"I hain't the faintest inception of an idea. It came as sudden as +that," declared Susan, snapping her finger. + +"Then he hasn't said anything special about not wanting to see--me?" + +"Why, no. He--Do you mean--HAS he found out?" demanded Susan, +interrupting herself excitedly. + +"Yes. He found out last Monday afternoon. Mazie ran up on to the porch +and called me by name right out. Oh, Susan, it was awful. I shall +never forget the look on that boy's face as long as I live." + +"Lan' sakes! MONDAY!" breathed Susan. "An' Tuesday he began refusin' +to see folks. Then 'course that was it. But why won't he see other +folks? They hain't anything to do with you." + +"I don't know--unless he didn't want to tell you specially not to let +me in, and so he said not to let anybody in." + +"Was he awful mad?" + +"It wasn't so much anger as it was grief and hurt and--oh, I can't +express what it was. But I saw it; and I never shall forget it. You +see, to have it blurted out to him like that without any warning--and +of course he couldn't understand." + +"But didn't you explain things--how 'twas, in the first place?" + +She shook her head. "I couldn't--not with Mazie there. I said I'd come +the next morning to--to finish the book. I thought he'd understand I +was going to explain then. He probably did--and that's why he won't +let me in. He doesn't want any explanations," sighed the girl +tremulously. + +"Well, he ought to want 'em," asserted Susan with vigor. "'Tain't fair +nor right nor sensible for him to act like this, makin' a mountain out +of an ant-hill. I declare, Miss Dorothy, he ought to be made to see +you." + +The girl flushed and drew back. + +"Most certainly not, Susan! I--I am not in the habit of MAKING people +see me, when they don't wish to. Do you suppose I'm going to beg and +tease: 'PLEASE won't you let me see you?' Hardly! He need not worry. I +shall not come again." + +"Oh, Miss Dorothy!" remonstrated Susan. + +"Why, of course I won't, Susan!" cried the girl. "Do you suppose I'm +going to keep him from seeing other people just because he's afraid +he'll have to let me in, too? Nonsense, Susan! Even you must admit I +cannot allow that. You may tell Mr. Keith, please, that he may feel no +further uneasiness. I shall not trouble him again." + +"Oh, Miss Dorothy!" begged Susan agitatedly, once more. + +But Miss Dorothy, with all the hurt dignity of her eighteen years, +turned haughtily away, leaving Susan impotent and distressed, looking +after her. + +Two minutes later Susan sought Keith in the living-room. Her whole +self spelt irate determination--but Keith could not see that. Keith, +listless and idle-handed, sat in his favorite chair by the window. + +"Dorothy Parkman jest rang the bell," began Susan, "an'-" + +"But I said I'd see no one," interrupted Keith, instantly alert. + +"That's what I told her, an' she's gone." + +"Oh, all right." Keith relaxed into his old listlessness. + +"An' she said to please tell you she'd trouble you no further, so you +might let in the others now as soon as you please." + +Keith sat erect in his chair with a jerk. + +"What did she mean by that?" + +"I guess you don't need me to tell you," observed Susan grimly. + +With a shrug and an irritable gesture Keith settled back in his chair. + +"I don't care to discuss it, Susan. I don't wish to see ANY one. We'll +let it go at that, if you please," he said. + +"But I don't please!" Susan was in the room now, close to Keith's +chair. Her face was quivering with emotion. "Keith, won't you listen +to reason? It ain't like you a mite to sit back like this an' refuse +to see a nice little body like Dorothy Parkman, what's been so kind--" + +"Susan!" Keith was sitting erect again. His face was white, and +carried a stern anguish that Susan had never seen before. "I don't +care to discuss Miss Parkman with you or with anybody else. Neither do +I care to discuss the fact that I thoroughly understand, of course, +that you, or she, or anybody else, can fool me into believing anything +you please; and I can't--help myself." + +"No, no, Keith, don't take it like that--please don't!" + +"Is there any other way I CAN take it? Do you think 'Miss Stewart' +could have made such a fool of me if I'd had EYES to see Dorothy +Parkman?" + +"But she was only tryin' to HELP you, an'--" + +"I don't want to be 'helped'!" stormed the boy hotly. "Did it ever +occur to you, Susan, that I might sometimes like to HELP somebody +myself, instead of this everlastingly having somebody help me?" + +"But you do help. You help me," asserted Susan feverishly, working her +nervous fingers together. "An' you'd help me more if you'd only let +folks in to see you, an'--" + +"All right, all right," interrupted Keith testily. "Let them in. Let +everybody in. I don't care. What's the difference? But, please, +PLEASE, Susan, stop talking any more about it all now." + +And Susan stopped. There were times when Susan knew enough to stop, +and this was one of them. + +But she took him at his word, and when Mrs. McGuire came the next day +with a letter from her John, Susan ushered her into the living-room +where Keith was sitting alone. And Keith welcomed her with at least a +good imitation of his old heartiness. + +Mrs. McGuire said she had such a funny letter to read to-day. She knew +he'd enjoy it, and Susan would, too, particularly the part that John +had quoted from something that had been printed by the British +soldiers in France and circulated among their comrades in the trenches +and hospitals, and everywhere. John had written it off on a separate +piece of paper, and this was it: + +Don't worry: there's nothing to worry about. + +You have two alternatives: either you are mobilized or you are not. If +not, you have nothing to worry about. + +If you are mobilized, you have two alternatives: you are in camp or at +the front. If you are in camp, you have nothing to worry about. + +If you are at the front, you have two alternatives: either you are on +the fighting line or in reserve. If in reserve, you have nothing to +worry about. + +If you are on the fighting line, you have two alternatives: either you +fight or you don't. If you don't, you have nothing to worry about. + +If you do, you have two alternatives: either you get hurt or you +don't. If you don't, you have nothing to worry about. + +If you are hurt, you have two alternatives: either you are slightly +hurt or badly. If slightly, you have nothing to worry about. + +If badly, you have two alternatives: either you recover or you don't. +If you recover, you have nothing to worry about. If you don't, and +have followed my advice clear through, you have done with worry +forever. + +Mrs. McGuire was in a gale of laughter by the time she had finished +reading this; so, too, was Susan. Keith also was laughing, but his +laughter did not have the really genuine ring to it--which fact did +not escape Susan. + +"Well, anyhow, he let Mis' McGuire in--an' that's somethin'," she +muttered to herself, as Mrs. McGuire took her departure. "Besides, he +talked to her real pleasant--an' that's more." + +As the days passed, others came, also, and Keith talked with them. He +even allowed Dorothy Parkman to be admitted one day. + +[Illustration: HE GAVE HER ALMOST NO CHANCE TO SAY ANYTHING HERSELF] + +Dorothy had not come until after long urging on the part of Susan and +the assurance that Keith had said he would see her. Even then nothing +would have persuaded her, she told Susan, except the great hope that +she could say something, in some way, that would set her right in +Keith's eyes. + +So with fear and trembling and with a painful embarrassment on her +face, but with a great hope in her heart, she entered the room and +came straight to Keith's side. + +For a moment the exultation of a fancied success sent a warm glow all +through her, for Keith had greeted her pleasantly and even extended +his hand. But almost at once the glow faded and the great hope died in +her heart, for she saw that even while she touched his hand, he was +yet miles away from her. + +He laughed and talked with her--oh, yes; but he laughed too much and +talked too much. He gave her almost no chance to say anything herself. +And what he said was so inconsequential and so far removed from +anything intimately concerning themselves, that the girl found it +utterly impossible to make the impassioned explanation which she had +been saying over and over again all night to herself, and from which +she had hoped so much. + +Yet at the last, just before she bade him good-bye, she did manage to +say something. But in her disappointment and excitement and +embarrassment, her words were blurted out haltingly and ineffectually, +and they were not at all the ones she had practiced over and over to +herself in the long night watches; nor were they received as she had +palpitatingly pictured that they would be, with Keith first stern and +hurt, and then just dear and forgiving and UNDERSTANDING. + +Keith was neither stern nor hurt. He still laughed pleasantly, and he +tossed her whole labored explanation aside with a light: "Certainly-- +of course--to be sure--not at all! You did quite right, I assure you!" +And then he remarked that it was a warm day, wasn't it? And Dorothy +found herself hurrying down the Burton front walk with burning cheeks +and a chagrined helplessness that left her furious and with an +ineffably cheap feeling--yet not able to put her finger on any +discourteous flaw in Keith's punctilious politeness. + +"I wish I'd never said a word--not a word," she muttered hotly to +herself as she hurried down the street. "I wonder if he thinks--I'll +ever open my head to him about it again. Well, he needn't--worry! But +--oh, Keith, Keith, how could you?" she choked brokenly. Then abruptly +she turned down a side street, lest Mazie Sanborn, coming toward her, +should see the big tears that were rolling down her cheeks. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + +JOHN McGUIRE + + +So imperative was the knock at the kitchen door at six o'clock that +July morning that Susan almost fell down the back stairs in her haste +to obey the summons. + +"Lan' sakes, Mis' McGuire, what a start you did give--why, Mis' +McGuire, what is it?" she interrupted herself, aghast, as Mrs. +McGuire, white-faced and wild-eyed, swept past her and began to pace +up and down the kitchen floor, moaning frenziedly: + +"It's come--it's come--I knew't would come. Oh, what shall I do? What +shall I do?" + +"What's come?" + +"Oh, John, John, my boy, my boy!" + +"You don't mean he's--dead?" + +"No, no, worse than that, worse than that!" moaned the woman, wringing +her hands. "Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do?" + +With a firm grasp Susan caught the twisting fingers and gently but +resolutely forced their owner into a chair. + +"Do? You'll jest calm yourself right down an' tell me all about it, +Mis' McGuire. This rampagin' 'round the kitchen like this don't do no +sort of good, an' it's awful on your nerves. An' furthermore an' +moreover, no matter what't is that ails your John, it can't be worse'n +death; for while there's life there's hope, you know." + +"But it is, it is, I tell you," sobbed Mrs. McGuire still swaying her +body back and forth. "Susan, my boy is--BLIND." With the utterance of +the dread word Mrs. McGuire stiffened suddenly into rigid horror, her +eyes staring straight into Susan's. + +"MIS' MCGUIRE!" breathed Susan in dismay; then hopefully, "But maybe +'twas a mistake." + +The woman shook her head. She went back to her swaying from side to +side. + +"No, 'twas a dispatch. It came this mornin'. Just now. Mr. McGuire was +gone, an' there wasn't anybody there but the children, an' they're +asleep. That's why I came over. I HAD to. I had to talk to some one!" + +"Of course, you did! An' you shall, you poor lamb. You shall tell me +all about it. What was it? What happened?" + +"I don't know. I just know he's blind, an' that he's comin' home. He's +on his way now. My John--blind! Oh, Susan, what shall I do, what shall +I do?" + +"Then he probably ain't sick, or hurt anywheres else, if he's on his +way home--leastways, he ain't hurt bad. You can be glad for that, Mis' +McGuire." + +"I don't know, I don't know. Maybe he is. It didn't say. It just said +blinded," chattered Mrs. McGuire feverishly. "They get them home just +as soon as they can when they're blinded. We were readin' about it +only yesterday in the paper--how they did send 'em home right away. +Oh, how little I thought that my son John would be one of 'em--my +John!" + +"But your John ain't the only one, Mis' McGuire. There's other Johns, +too. Look at our Keith here." + +"I know, I know." + +"An' I wonder how he'll take this--about your John?" + +"HE'LL know what it means," choked Mrs. McGuire. + +"He sure will--an' he'll feel bad. I know that. He ain't hisself, +anyway, these days." + +"He ain't?" Mrs. McGuire asked the question abstractedly, her mind +plainly on her own trouble; but Susan, intent on HER trouble, did not +need even the question to spur her tongue. + +"No, he ain't. Oh, he's brave an' cheerful. He's awful cheerful, even +cheerfuler than he was a month ago. He's too cheerful, Mis' McGuire. +There's somethin' back of it I don't like. He--" + +But Mrs. McGuire was not listening. Wringing her hands she had sprung +to her feet and was pacing the floor again, moaning: "Oh, what shall I +do, what shall I do?" A minute later, only weeping afresh at Susan's +every effort to comfort her, she stumbled out of the kitchen and +hurried across the yard to her own door. + +Watching her from the window, Susan drew a long sigh. + +"I wonder how he WILL take--But, lan' sakes, this ain't gettin' my +breakfast," she ejaculated with a hurried glance at the clock on the +little shelf over the stove. + +There was nothing, apparently, to distinguish breakfast that morning +from a dozen other breakfasts that had gone before. Keith and his +father talked cheerfully of various matters, and Susan waited upon +them with her usual briskness. If Susan was more silent than usual, +and if her eyes sought Keith's face more frequently than was her +habit, no one, apparently, noticed it. Susan did fancy, however, that +she saw a new tenseness in Keith's face, a new nervousness in his +manner; but that, perhaps, was because she was watching him so +closely, and because he was so constantly in her mind, owing to her +apprehension as to how he would take the news of John McGuire's +blindness. + +From the very first Susan had determined not to tell her news until +after Mr. Burton had left the house. She could not have explained it +even to herself, but she had a feeling that it would be better to tell +Keith when he was alone. She planned, also, to tell him casually, as +it were, in the midst of other conversation--not as if it were the one +thing on her mind. In accordance with this, therefore, she forced +herself to finish her dishes and to set her kitchen in order before +she sought Keith in the living-room. + +But Keith was not in the living-room; neither was he on the porch or +anywhere in the yard. + +With a troubled frown on her face Susan climbed the stairs to the +second floor. Keith's room was silent, and empty, so far as human +presence was concerned. So, too, was the studio, and every other room +on that floor. + +At the front of the attic stairs Susan hesitated. The troubled frown +on her face deepened as she glanced up the steep, narrow stairway. + +She did not like to have Keith go off by himself to the attic, and +already now twice before she had found him up there, poking in the +drawers of an old desk that had been his father's. He had shut the +drawers quickly and had laughingly turned aside her questions when she +had asked him what in the world he was doing up there. And he had got +up immediately and had gone downstairs with her. But she had not liked +the look on his face. And to-day, as she hesitated at the foot of the +stairs, she was remembering that look. But for only a moment. +Resolutely then she lifted her chin, ran up the stairs, and opened the +attic door. + +Over at the desk by the window there was a swift movement--but not so +swift that Susan did not see the revolver pushed under some loose +papers. + +"Is that you, Susan?" asked Keith sharply. "Yes, honey. I jest came up +to get somethin'." + +Susan's face was white like paper, and her hands were cold and +shaking, but her voice, except for a certain breathlessness, was +cheerfully steady. With more or less noise and with a running fire of +inconsequent comment, she rummaged among the trunks and boxes, +gradually working her way to, ward the desk where Keith still sat. + +At the desk, with a sudden swift movement, she thrust the papers to +one side and dropped her hand on the revolver. At the same moment +Keith's arm shot out and his hand fell, covering hers. + +She saw his young face flush and harden and his mouth set into stern +lines. + +"Susan, you'll be good enough, please, to take your hand off that," he +said then sharply. + +There was a moment's tense silence. Susan's eyes, agonized and +pleading, were on his face. But Keith could not see that. He could +only hear her words a moment later--light words, with a hidden laugh +in them, yet spoken with that same curious breathlessness. + +"Faith, honey, an' how can I, with your own hand holdin' mine so +tight?" + +Keith removed his hand instantly. His set face darkened. + +"This is not a joke, Susan, and I shall have to depend on your honor +to let that revolver stay where it is. Unfortunately I am unable to +SEE whether I am obeyed or not." + +It was Susan's turn to flush. She drew back at once, leaving the +weapon uncovered on the desk between them. + +"I'm not takin' the pistol, Keith." The laugh was all gone from +Susan's voice now. So, too, was the breathlessness. The voice was +steady, grave, but very gentle. "We take matches an' pizen an' knives +away from CHILDREN--not from grown men, Keith. The pistol is right +where you can reach it--if you want it." + +[Illustration: KEITH'S ARM SHOT OUT AND HIS HAND FELL, COVERING HERS] + +She saw the fingers of Keith's hand twitch and tighten. Otherwise +there was no answer. After a moment she went on speaking. + +"But let me say jest this: 'tain't like you to be a--quitter, Keith." +She saw him wince, but she did not wait for him to speak. "An' after +you've done this thing, there ain't any one in the world goin' to be +so sorry as you'll be. You mark my words." + +It was like a sharp knife cutting a taut cord. The tense muscles +relaxed and Keith gave a sudden laugh. True, it was a short laugh, and +a bitter one; but it was a laugh. + +"You forget, Susan. If--if I carried that out I wouldn't be in the +world--to care." + +"Shucks! You'd be in some world, Keith Burton, an' you know it. An' +you'd feel nice lookin' down on the mess you'd made of THIS world, +wouldn't you?" + +"Well, if I was LOOKING, I'd be SEEING, wouldn't I?" cut in the youth +grimly. "Don't forget, Susan, that I'd be SEEING, please." + +"Seein' ain't everything, Keith Burton. Jest remember that. There is +some things you'd rather be blind than see. An' that's one of 'em. +Besides, seein' ain't the only sensible you've got, an' there's such a +lot of things you can do, an'--" + +"Oh, yes, I know," interrupted Keith fiercely, flinging out both his +hands. "I can feel a book, and eat my dinner, and I can hear the +shouts of the people cheering the boys that go marching by my door. +But I'm tired of it all. I tell you I can't stand it--I CAN'T, Susan. +Yes, I know that's a cheap way out of it," he went on, after a choking +pause, with a wave of his hand toward the revolver on the desk;" and a +cowardly one, too. I know all that. And maybe I wouldn't have--have +done it to-day, even if you hadn't come. I found it last week, and it +--fascinated me. It seemed such an easy way out of it. Since then I've +been up here two or three times just to--to feel of it. Somehow I +liked to know it was here, and that, if--if I just couldn't stand +things another minute-- + +"But--I've tried to be decent, honest I have. But I'm tired of being +amused and 'tended to like a ten-year-old boy. I don't want flowers +and jellies and candies brought in to me. I don't want to read and +play solitaire and checkers week in and week out. I want to be over +there, doing a man's work. Look at Ted, and Tom, and Jack Green, and +John McGuire!" + +"John McGuire!" It was a faltering cry from Susan, but Keith did not +even hear. + +"What are they doing, and what am I doing? Yet you people expect me to +sit here contented with a dice-box and a deck of playing-cards, and be +GLAD I can do that much. Oh, well, I suppose I ought to be. But when I +sit here alone day after day and think and think--" + +"But, Keith, we don't want you to do that," interposed Susan +feverishly. "Now there's Miss Dorothy--if you'd only let her--" + +"But I tell you I don't want to be babied and pitied and 'tended to by +young women who are SORRY for me. _I_ want to do the helping part of +the time. And if I see a girl I--I could care for, I want to be able +to ask her like a man to marry me; and then if she says 'yes,' I want +to be able to take care of her myself--not have her take care of me +and marry me out of pity and feed me fudge and flowers! And there's-- +dad." + +Keith's voice broke and stopped. Susan, watching his impassioned face, +wet her lips and swallowed convulsively. Then Keith began again. + +"Susan, do you know the one big thing that drives me up here every +time, in spite of myself? It's the thought of--dad. How do you suppose +I feel to think of dad peddling peas and beans and potatoes down to +McGuire's grocery store?--dad!" + +Susan lifted her head defiantly. + +"Well, now look a-here, Keith Burton, let me tell you that peddlin' +peas an' beans an' potatoes is jest as honorary as paintin' pictures, +an'--" + +"I'm not saying it isn't," cut in the boy incisively. "I'm merely +saying that, as I happen to know, he prefers to paint pictures--and I +prefer to have him. And he'd be doing it this minute--if it wasn't for +his having to support me, and you know it, Susan." + +"Well, what of it? It don't hurt him any." + +"It hurts me, Susan. And when I think of all the things he hoped--of +me. I was going to be Jerry and Ned and myself; and I was going to +make him so proud, Susan, so proud! I was going to make up to him all +that he had lost. All day under the trees up on the hill, I used to +lie and dream of what I was going to be some day--the great pictures I +was going to paint--for dad. The great fame that was going to come to +me--for dad. The money I was going to earn--for dad: I saw dad, old +and white-haired, leaning on me. I saw the old house restored--all the +locks and keys and sagging blinds, the cracked ceilings and tattered +wallpaper--all made fresh and new. And dad so proud and happy in it +all--so proud and happy that perhaps he'd think I really had made up +for Jerry and Ned, and his own lost hopes. + +"And, now, look at me! Useless, worse than useless--all my life a +burden to him and to everybody else. Susan, I can't stand it. I CAN'T. +That's why I want to end it all. It would be so simple--such an easy +way--out." + +"Yes, 'twould--for quitters. Quitters always take easy ways out. But +you ain't no quitter, Keith Burton. Besides, 't wouldn't end it. You +know that. 'Twould jest be shuttin' the door of this room an' openin' +the one to the next. You've had a good Christian bringin' up, Keith +Burton, an' you know as well as I do that your eternal, immoral soul +ain't goin' to be snuffled out of existence by no pistol shot, no +matter how many times you pull the jigger." + +Keith laughed--and with the laugh his tense muscles relaxed. + +"All right, Susan," he shrugged a little grimly. "I'll concede your +point. You made it--perhaps better than you know. But--well, it isn't +so pleasant always to be the hook, you know," he finished bitterly. + +"The--hook?" frowned Susan. + +Keith laughed again grimly. + +"Perhaps you've forgotten--but I haven't. I heard you talking to Mrs. +McGuire one day. You said that everybody was either a hook or an eye, +and that more than half the folks were hooks hanging on to somebody +else. And that's why some eyes had more than their share of hooks +hanging on to them. You see--I remembered. I knew then, when you said +it, that I was a hook, and--" + +"Keith Burton, I never thought of you when I said that," interrupted +Susan agitatedly. + +"Perhaps not; but _I_ did. Why, Susan, of course I'm a hook--an old, +bent, rusty hook. But I can hang on--oh, yes, I can hang on--to +anybody that will let me! But, Susan, don't you see?--sometimes it +seems as if I'd give the whole world if just for once I could feel +that I--that some one was hanging on to me! that I was of some use +somewhere." + +"An' so you're goin' to be, honey. I know you be," urged Susan +eagerly. "Just remember all them fellers that wrote books an' give +lecturing an'--" + +"Oh, yes, I know," interposed Keith, with a faint smile. "You were a +good old soul, Susan, to read me all those charming tales, and I +understood of course, what you were doing it for. You wanted me to go +and do likewise. But I couldn't write a book to save my soul, Susan, +and my voice would stick in my throat at the second word of a +'lecturing.'" + +"But there'll be somethin', Keith, I know there'll be somethin'. God +never locked up the doors of your eyes without givin' you the key to +some other door. It's jest that you hain't found it yet." + +"Perhaps. I certainly haven't found it--that's sure," retorted the lad +bitterly. "And just why He saw fit to send me this blindness--" + +"We don't have to know," interposed Susan quickly; "an' questionin' +about it don't settle nothin', anyhow. If we've got it, we've got it, +an' if it's somethin' we can't possibly help, the only questionin' +worth anything then is how are we goin' to stand it. You see, there's +more'n one way of standin' things." + +"Yes, I know there is." Keith stirred restlessly in his seat. + +"An' some ways is better than others." + +"There, there, Susan, I know just what you're going to say, and it's +all very true, of course," cried Keith, stirring still more +restlessly. "But you see T don't happen to feel like hearing it just +now. Oh, yes, I know I've got lots to be thankful for. I can hear, and +feel, and taste, and walk; and I should be glad for all of them. And I +am, of course. I should declare that all's well with the world, and +that both sides of the street are sunny, and that there isn't any +shadow anywhere. There, you see! I know all that you would say, Susan, +and I've said it, so as to save you the trouble." + +"Humph!" commented Susan, bridling a little; then suddenly, she gave a +sly chuckle. "That's all very well an' good, Master Keith Burton, but +there's one more thing I would have said if I was doin' the sayin'!" + +"Well?" + +"About that both sides of the street bein' sunny--it seems to me that +the man what says, yes, he knows one side is shady an' troublous, but +that he thinks it'll be healthier an' happier for him an' everybody +else 'round him if he walks on the sunny side, an' then WALKS THERE-- +it seems to me he's got the spots all knocked off that feller what +says there AIN'T no shady side!" + +Keith gave a low laugh--a laugh more nearly normal than Susan had +heard him give for several days. + +"All right, Susan, I'll accept your amendment and--we'll let it go +that one side is shady, and that I'm supposed to determinedly pick the +sunny side. Anything more?" + +"M-more?" + +"That you came up to say to me--yes. You know I have just saved you +the trouble of saying part of it." + +"Oh!" Susan laughed light-heartedly. (This was Keith--her Keith that +she knew.) "No that's all I--" She stopped short in dismay! All the +color and lightness disappeared from her face, leaving it suddenly +white and drawn. "That is," she faltered, "there was somethin' else--I +was goin' to say, about--about John McGuire. He--" + +"I don't care to hear it." Keith had frozen instantly into frigid +aloofness. Stern lines had come to his boyish mouth. + +"But--but, Keith, Mrs. McGuire came over to-" + +"To read another of those precious letters, of course," cut in Keith +angrily, "but I tell you I don't want to hear it. Do you suppose a +caged bird likes to hear of the woods and fields and tree-tops while +he's tied to a three-inch swing between two gilt bars? Well, hardly! +There's lots that I do have to stand, Susan, but I don't have to stand +that." + +Susan caught her breath with a half sob. + +"But, Keith, I wasn't going to tell you of--of woods an' fields an' +tree-tops this time. You see--now he's in a cage himself." + +"What do you mean?" + +"He's coming home. He's--blind." + +Keith leaped from his chair. + +"BLIND? JOHN McGUIRE?" + +"Yes." + +"Oh-h-h!" Long years of past suffering and of future woe filled the +short little word to bursting, as Keith dropped back into his chair. +For a moment he sat silent, his whole self held rigid. Then, +unsteadily he asked the question: + +"What--happened?" + +"They don't know. It was a dispatch that came this mornin'. He was +blinded, an' is on his way home. That's all." + +"That's--enough." + +"Yes, I knew you'd--understand." + +"Yes, I do--understand." + +Susan hesitated. Keith still sat, with his unseeing gaze straight +ahead, his body tense and motionless. On the desk within reach lay the +revolver. Cautiously Susan half extended her hand toward it, then drew +it back. She glanced again at Keith's absorbed face, then turned and +made her way quietly down the stairs. + +At the bottom of the attic flight she glanced back. "He won't touch it +now, I'm sure," she breathed. "An', anyhow, we only take knives an' +pizen away from children--not grown men!" + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + +AS SUSAN SAW IT + + +It was the town talk, of course--the home-coming of John McGuire. Men +gathered on street corners and women clustered about back-yard fences +and church doorways. Children besieged their parents with breathless +questions, and repeated to each other in awe-struck whispers what they +had heard. Everywhere was horror, sympathy, and interested speculation +as to "how he'd take it." + +Where explicit information was so lacking, imagination and surmise +eagerly supplied the details; and Mrs. McGuire's news of the blinding +of John McGuire was not three days old before a full account of the +tragedy from beginning to end was flying from tongue to tongue--an +account that would have surprised no one so greatly as it would have +surprised John McGuire himself. + +To Susan, Dorothy Parkman came one day with this story. + +"Well, 't ain't true," disavowed Susan succinctly when the lurid +details had been breathlessly repeated to her. + +"You mean--he isn't blind?" demanded the young girl. + +"Oh, yes, he's blind, all right, poor boy! But it's the rest I mean-- +about his killin' twenty-eight Germans single-handed, an' bein' all +shot to pieces hisself, an' benighted for bravery." + +"But what did happen?" + +"We don't know. We just know he's blind an' comin' home. Mis' McGuire +had two letters yesterday from John, but--" + +"From John--himself?" + +"Yes; but they was both writ long before the apostrophe, an' 'course +they didn't say nothin' about it. He was well an' happy, he said. She +had had only one letter before these for a long time. An' now to have +--this!" + +"Yes, I know. It's terrible. How does--Mr. Keith take it?" + +Susan opened wide her eyes. + +"Why, you've seen him--you see him yesterday yourself, Miss Dorothy." + +"Oh, I saw him--in a way, but not the real him, Susan. He's miles away +now, always." + +"You mean he ain't civil an' polite?" demanded Susan. + +"Oh, he's very civil--too civil, Susan. Every time I go I say I won't +go again. Then, when I get to thinking of him sitting there alone all +day, and of how he used to like to have me read to him and play with +him, I--I just have to go and see if he won't be the same as he used +to be. But he never is." + +"I know." Susan shook her head mournfully. "An' he ain't the same, +Miss Dorothy. He don't ever whistle nor sing now, nor play solitary, +nor any of them things he used to do. Oh, when folks comes in he +braces back an' talks an' laughs. YOU know that. But in the exclusion +of his own home here he jest sits an' thinks an' thinks an' thinks. +An', Miss Dorothy, I've found out now what he's thinkin' of." + +"Yes?" + +"It's John McGuire an' them other soldiers what's comin' back blind +from the war. An' he talks an' talks about 'em, an' mourns an' takes +on something dreadful. He says HE knows what it means, an' that nobody +can know what hain't had it happen to 'em. An' he broods an' broods +over it." + +"I can--imagine it." The girl said it with a little catch in her +voice. + +"An'--an' there's somethin' else I want to tell you about. I've got to +tell somebody. I want to know if you think I done right. An' you're +the only one I can tell. I've thought it all out. Daniel Burton is too +near, an' Mis' McGuire an' all them others is too far. You ain't a +relation, an' yet you care. You do care, don't you?--about Mr. Keith?" + +"Why, of--of course. I care a great deal, Susan." Miss Dorothy spoke +very lightly, very impersonally; but there was a sudden flame of color +in her face. Susan, however, was not noticing this. Furtively she was +glancing one way and another over her shoulder. + +"Yes. Well, the other day he--he tried to--that is, well, I--I found +him with a pistol in his hand, an'--" + +"Susan!" The girl had gone very white. + +"Oh, he didn't do it. Well, that ain't a very sensitive statement, is +it? For if he had done it, he wouldn't be alive now, would he?" broke +off Susan, with a faint smile. "But what I mean is, he didn't do it, +an' I don't think he's goin' to do it." + +"But, oh, Susan," faltered the girl, "you didn't leave that--that +awful thing with him, did you? Didn't you take it--away?" + +"No." Susan's mouth set grimly. "An' that's what I wanted to ask you +about--if I did right, you know." + +"Oh, no, no, Susan! I'm afraid," shuddered the girl. "Can't you--get +it away--now?" + +"Maybe. I know where 'tis. I was up there yesterday an' see it. 'T was +in the desk drawer in the attic, jest where it used to be." + +"Then get it, Susan, get it. Oh, please get it," begged the girl. "I'm +afraid to have it there--a single minute." + +"But, Miss Dorothy, stop; wait jest a minute. Think. How's he goin' to +get self-defiance an' make a strong man of hisself if we take things +away from him like he was a little baby?" + +"I know, Susan; but if he SHOULD be tempted--" + +"He won't. He ain't no more. I'm sure of that. I talked with him. +Besides, I hain't caught him up there once since that day last week. +Oh, I'm free to confess I HAVE watched him," admitted Susan +defensively, with a faint smile. + +"But what did happen that day you--you found him?" + +"Oh, he had it, handlin' it, an' when he heard me, he jumped a little, +an' hid it under some papers. My, Miss Dorothy, 'twas awful. I was +that scared an' frightened I thought I couldn't move. But I knew I'd +got to, an' I knew I'd got to move RIGHT, too, or I'd spoil +everything. This wa'n't no ten-cent melodydrama down to the movies, +but I had a humane soul there before me, an' I knew maybe it's whole +internal salvation might depend on what I said an' did." + +"But what DID you say?" + +"I don't know. I only know that somehow, when it was over, I had a +feelin' that he wouldn't never do that thing again. That somehow the +MAN in him was on top, an' would stay on top. An' I'm more sure than +ever of it now. He ain't thinkin' of hisself these days. It's John +McGuire and them others. An' ain't it better that he let that pistol +alone of his own free will an' accordance, an' know he was a man an' +no baby, than if I'd taken it away from him?" + +"I suppose--it was, Susan; but I don't think I'd have been strong +enough--to make him strong." + +"Yes, you would, if you'd been there. I reckon we're all goin' to +learn to do a lot of things we never did before, now that the war has +come." + +"Yes, I know." A quivering pain swept across the young girl's face. + +"Somehow, the war never seemed real to me before. 'T was jest +somethin' 'way off--a lot of Dagoes an' Dutchmen, like the men what +dug up the McGuires' frozen water-pipes last spring, fightin'. Not our +kind of folks what talked English. Even when I read the papers, an' +the awful things they did over there--it didn't seem as if 't was +folks on our earth. It was like somethin' you read about in them old +histronic days, or somethin' happenin' up on the moon, or on that +plantation of Mars. Oh, of course, I knew John McGuire had gone; but +somehow I never thought of him as fightin'--not with guns an' bloody +gore, in spite of them letters of his. Some way, in my mind's eyes I +always see him marchin' with flags flyin' an' folks cheerin'; an' I +thought the war'd be over, anyhow, by the time he got there. + +"But, now--! Why, now they're all gone--our own Teddy Somers, an' Tom +Spencer, an' little Jacky Green that I used to hold on my knee. Some +of 'em in France, an' some of 'em in them army canteens down to Ayer +an' Texas an' everywhere. An' poor Tom's died already of pneumonia +right here in our own land. An' now poor John McGuire! I tell you, +Miss Dorothy, it brings it right home now to your own heart, where it +hurts." + +"It certainly does, Susan." + +"An' let me tell you. What do you s'pose, more 'n anything else, made +me see how really big it all is?" + +"I don't know, Susan," + +"Well, I'll tell you. 'Twas because I couldn't write a poem on it." + +"Sure enough, Susan! I don't believe I've heard you make a rhyme to- +day," smiled Miss Dorothy. + +Susan sighed and shook her head. + +"Yes, I know. I don't make 'em much now. Somehow they don't sing all +the time in my heart, an' burst out natural-like, as they used to. I +think them days when I tried so hard to sell my poems, an' couldn't, +kinder took the jest out of poetizin' for me. Somehow, when you find +out somethin' is invaluable to other folks, it gets so it's invaluable +to you, I s'pose. Still, even now, when I set right down to it, I can +'most always write 'em right off 'most as quick as I used to. But I +couldn't on this war. I tried it. But it jest wouldn't do. I begun it: + + Oh, woe is me, said the bayonet, + Oh, woe is me, said the sword. + +Then the whole awful frightfulness of it an' the bigness of it seemed +to swallow me up, an' I felt like a little pigment overtopped an' +surrounded by great tall mountains of horror that were tumblin' down +one after another on my head, an' bury in' me down so far an' deep +that I couldn't say anything, only to moan, 'Oh, Lord, how long, oh, +Lord, how long?' An' I knew then't was too big for me. I didn't try to +write no more." + +"I can see how you couldn't," faltered the girl, as she turned away. +"I'm afraid--we're all going to find it--too big for us," + + + + +CHAPTER XXV + +KEITH TO THE RESCUE + + +John McGuire had not been home twenty-four hours before it was known +that he "took it powerful hard." + +To Keith Susan told what she had learned. + +"They say he utterly refuses to see any one outside the family; an' +that he'd rather not see even his own folks--that he's always askin' +'em to let him alone." + +"Is he ill or wounded otherwise?" asked Keith. + +"No, he ain't hurt outwardly or infernally, except his eyes, an' he +says that's the worst of it, one woman told me. He's as sound as a +nut, an' good for a hundred years yet. If he'd only been smashed up +good an' solid, so's he'd have some hope of dyin' pretty quick, he +wouldn't mind it, he says. But to live along like this--!--oh, he's in +an awful state of mind, everybody says." + +"I can--imagine it," sighed Keith. And by the way he turned away Susan +knew that he did not care to talk any more. + +An hour later Mrs. McGuire hurried into Susan's kitchen. Mrs. McGuire +was looking thin and worn these days. From her half-buttoned shoes to +her half-combed hair she was showing the results of strain and +anxiety. With a long sigh she dropped into one of the kitchen chairs. + +"Well, Mis' McGuire, if you ain't the stranger!" Susan greeted her +cordially. + +"Yes, I know," sighed Mrs. McGuire. "But, you see, I can't leave-- +him." As she spoke she looked anxiously through the window toward her +own door. "Mr. McGuire's with him, now, so I got away." + +"But there's Bess an' Harry," began Susan, + +"We don't leave him with the children, ever," interposed Mrs. McGuire, +with another hurried glance through the window. "We--don't dare to. +You see, once we found--we found him with his father's old pistol. Oh, +Susan, it--it was awful!" + +"Yes, it--must have been." Susan, after one swift glance into her +visitor's face, had turned her back suddenly. She was busy now with +the dampers of her kitchen stove. + +"Of course we took it right away," went on Mrs. McGuire, "an' put it +where he'll never get it again. But we're always afraid there'll be +somethin' somewhere that he WILL get hold of. You see, he's SO +despondent--in such a terrible state!" + +"Yes, I know," nodded Susan. Susan had abandoned her dampers, and had +turned right about face again. "If only he'd see folks now." + +"Yes, an' that's what I came over to talk to you about," cried Mrs. +McGuire eagerly. "We haven't been able to get him to see anybody--not +anybody. But I've been wonderin' if he wouldn't see Keith, if we could +work it right. You see he says he just won't be stared at; an' Keith, +poor boy, COULDN'T stare, an' John knows it. Oh, Susan, do you suppose +we could manage it?" + +"Why, of course. I'll tell him right away, an' he'll go over; I know +he'll go!" exclaimed Susan, all interest at once. + +"Oh, but that wouldn't do at all!" cried Mrs. McGuire. "Don't you see? +John refuses, absolutely refuses, to see any one; an' he wouldn't see +Keith, if I should ASK him to. But he's interested in Keith--I KNOW +he's that, for once, when I was talkin' to Mr. McGuire about Keith, +John broke in an' asked two or three questions, an' he's NEVER done +that before, about anybody. An' so I was pretty sure it was because +Keith was blind, you know, like himself." + +"Yes, I see, I see." + +"An' if I can only manage it so they'll meet without John's knowin' +they're goin' to, I believe he'll get to talkin' with him before he +knows it; an' that it'll do him a world of good. Anyway, somethin's +got to be done, Susan--it's GOT to be--to get him out of this awful +state he's in." + +"Well, we'll do it. I know we can do it some way." + +"You think Keith'll do his part?" Mrs. McGuire's eyes were anxious. + +"I'm sure he will--when he understands." + +"Then listen," proposed Mrs. McGuire eagerly. "I'll get my John out on +to the back porch to-morrow mornin'. That's the only place outdoors I +CAN get him--he can't be seen from the street there, you know. I'll +get him there as near ten o'clock as I can. You be on the watch, an' +as soon as I get him all nicely fixed, you get Keith to come out into +your yard an' stroll over to the fence an' speak to him, an' then come +up on to the porch an' sit down, just naturally. He can do that all +right, can't he? It's just wonderful--the way he gets around +everywhere, with that little cane of his!" + +"Yes, oh, yes." + +"Well, I thought he could. An' tell him to keep right on talkin' every +minute so my John won't have a chance to get up an' go into the house. +Of course, I shall be there myself, at first. We never leave him +alone, you know. But as soon as Keith comes, I shall go. They'll get +along better by themselves, I'm sure--only, of course, I shall be +where I can keep watch out of the window. Now do you understand?" + +"Yes, an' we can do it. I know we can do it." + +"All right, then. I'm not so sure we can, but we'll try it, anyway," +sighed Mrs. McGuire, rising to her feet, the old worry back on her +face. "Well, I must be goin'. Mr. McGuire'll have a fit. He's as +nervous as a witch when he's left alone with John. There! What did I +tell you?" she broke off, with an expressive gesture and glance, as a +careworn-looking man appeared in the doorway of the house across the +two back yards, and peered anxiously over at the Burtons' kitchen +door. "Now, don't forget--ten o'clock to-morrow mornin'." + +"I won't forget," promised Susan cheerfully, "Now, do you go home an' +set easy, Mis' McGuire, an' don't you fret no more. It's comin' out +all right--all right, I tell you," she reiterated, as Mrs. McGuire +hurried through the doorway. + +But when Mrs. McGuire was gone Susan drew a dubious sigh; and her +cheery smile had turned to a questioning frown as she went in search +of Keith. Very evidently Susan was far from feeling quite so sure +about Keith's cooperation as she would have Mrs. McGuire think. + +Keith was in the living-room, his head bowed in his two hands, his +elbows on the table before him. At the first sound of Susan's steps he +lifted his head with a jerk. + +"I was lookin' for you," began Susan the moment she had crossed the +threshold. Susan had learned that Keith hated above all things to have +to speak first, or to ask, "Who is it?" "Mis' McGuire's jest been +here." + +"Yes, I heard her voice," returned the boy indifferently. + +"She was tellin' about her John." + +"How is he getting along?" + +"He's in a bad way. Oh, he's real well physicianally, but he's in a +bad way in his mind." + +"Well, you don't wonder, do you?" + +"Oh, no, 'course not. Still, well, for one thing, he don't like to see +folks." + +"Strange! Now, I'd think he'd just dote on seeing folks, wouldn't +you?" + +Susan caught the full force of the sarcasm, but superbly she ignored +it. + +"Well, I don't know--maybe; but, anyhow, he don't, an' Mis' McGuire's +that worried she don't know what to do. You see, she found him once +with his daddy's pistol"--Susan was talking very fast now--"an' +'course that worked her up somethin' terrible. I'm afraid he hain't +got much backbone. They don't dare to leave him alone a minute--not a +minute. An' Mis' McGuire, she was wonderin' if--if you couldn't help +'em out some way." + +"_I_?" The short ejaculation was full of amazement. + +"Yes. That's what she come over for this mornin'." + +"I? They forget." Keith fell back bitterly. "John McGuire might get +hold of a dozen revolvers, and I wouldn't know it." + +"Oh, 'twa'n't that. They didn't want you to WATCH him. They wanted you +to--Well, it's jest this. Mis' McGuire thought as how if she could get +her John out on the back porch, an' you happened to be in our back +yard, an' should go over an' speak to him, maybe you'd get to talkin' +with him, an' go up an' sit down. She thought maybe 'twould get him +out of hisself that way. You see, he won't talk to--to most folks. He +don't like to be stared at." (Susan threw a furtive glance into +Keith's face, then looked quickly away.) "But she thought maybe he +WOULD talk to you." + +"Yes, I--see." Keith drew in his breath with a little catch. + +"An' so she said there wa'n't anybody anywhere that could help so much +as you--if you would." + +"Why, of course, if I really could HELP--" + +Susan did not need to look into Keith's face to catch the longing and +heart-hunger and dawning hope in the word left suspended on his lips. +She felt her own throat tighten; but in a moment she managed to speak +with steady cheerfulness. + +"Well, you can. You can help a whole lot. I'm sure you can. An' Mis' +McGuire is, too. An' what's more, you're the only one what can help +'em, in this case. So we'll keep watch to-morrow mornin', an' when he +comes out on the porch--well, we'll see what we will see." And Susan, +just as if her own heart was not singing a triumphant echo of the song +she knew was in his, turned away with an elaborate air of +indifference. + +Yet, when to-morrow came, and when Keith went out into the yard in +response to the presence of John McGuire on his back porch, the result +was most disappointing--to Susan. To Keith it did not seem to be so +much so. But perhaps Keith had not expected quite what Susan had +expected. At all events, Keith came back to the house with a glow on +his face and a springiness in his step that Susan had not seen there +for months. Yet all that had happened was that Keith had called out +from the gate a pleasant "Good-morning!" to the blinded soldier, and +had followed it with an inconsequential word or two about the weather. +John McGuire had answered a crisp, cold something, and had risen at +once to go into the house. Keith, at the first sound of his feet on +the porch floor, had turned with a cheery "Well, I must be going back +to the house." Whereupon John McGuire had sat down again, and Mrs. +McGuire, who at Keith's first words, had started to her feet, dropped +back into her chair. + +Apparently not much accomplished, certainly; yet there was the glow on +Keith's face and the springiness in Keith's step; and when he reached +the kitchen, he said this to Susan: + +"The next time John McGuire is on the back porch, please let me know." + +And Susan let him know, both then and at subsequent times. + +It was a pretty game and one well worth the watching. Certainly Susan +and Mrs. McGuire thought it so. On the one side were persistence and +perseverance and infinite tact. On the other were a distrustful +antagonism and a palpable longing for an understanding companionship. + +At first the intercourse between the two blind youths consisted of a +mere word or two tossed by Keith to the other who gave a still shorter +word in reply. And even this was not every day, for John McGuire was +not out on the porch every day. But as the month passed, he came more +and more frequently, and one evening Mrs. McGuire confided to Susan +the fact that John seemed actually to fret now if a storm kept him +indoors. + +"An' he listens for Keith to come along the fence--I know he does," +she still further declared. "Oh, I know he doesn't let him say much +yet, but he hasn't jumped up to go into the house once since those +first two or three times, an' that's somethin'. An' what's more, he +let Keith stay a whole minute at the gate talkin' yesterday!" she +finished in triumph. + +"Yes, an' the best of it is," chimed in Susan, "it's helpin' Keith +Burton hisself jest as much as 'tis John McGuire. Why, he ain't the +same boy since he's took to tryin' to get your John to talkin'. An' he +asks me a dozen times a mornin' if John's out on the porch yet. An' +when he IS out there, he don't lose no time in goin' out hisself." + +Yet it was the very next morning that Keith, after eagerly asking if +John McGuire were on the back porch, did not go out. Instead he +settled back in his chair and picked up one of his embossed books. + +Susan frowned in amazed wonder, and opened her lips as if to speak. +But after a glance at Keith's apparently absorbed face, she turned and +went back to her work in the kitchen. Twice during the next ten +minutes, however, she invented an excuse to pass again through the +living-room, where Keith sat. Yet, though she said a pointed something +each time about John McGuire on the back porch, Keith did not respond +save with an indifferent word or two. And, greatly to her indignation, +he was still sitting in his chair with his book when at noon John +McGuire, on the porch across the back yard, rose from his seat and +went into the house. + +Susan was still more indignant when, the next morning, the same +programme was repeated--except for the fact that Susan's reminders of +John McGuire's presence on the back porch were even more pointed than +they had been on the day before. Again the third morning it was the +same. Susan resolved then to speak. She said to herself that "patience +had ceased to be virtuous," and she lay awake half that night +rehearsing a series of arguments and pleadings which she meant to +present the next morning. She was the more incited to this owing to +Mrs. McGuire's distracted reproaches the evening before. + +"Why, John has asked for him, actually ASKED for him," Mrs. McGuire +had wept. "An' it is cruel, the cruelest thing I ever saw, to get that +poor boy all worked up to the point of really WANTIN' to talk with +him, an' then stay away three whole days like this!" + +On the fourth morning, therefore, when John McGuire appeared on the +back porch, Susan went into the Burton living-room with the avowed +determination of getting Keith out of the house and into the back +yard, or of telling him exactly what she thought of him. + +She had all of her elaborate scheming for nothing, however, for at her +first terse announcement that John McGuire was on the back porch, +Keith sprang to his feet with a cheery: + +"So? Well, I guess I'll go out myself." + +And Susan was left staring at him with open eyes and mouth--yet not +too dazed to run to the open window and watch what happened. + +And this is what Susan saw--and heard. Keith, with his almost +uncannily skillful stick to guide him, sauntered down the path and +called a cheery greeting to John McGuire--a John McGuire who, in his +eagerness to respond, leaned away forward in his chair with a sudden +flame of color in his face. + +Keith still sauntered toward the dividing fence, pausing only to feel +with his fingers and pick the one belated rose from the bush at the +gate. He pushed the gate open then, still talking cheerfully, and the +next moment Susan was holding her breath, for Keith had gone straight +up the walk and up the steps, and had dropped himself into the vacant +chair beside John McGuire--and John McGuire, after a faint start as if +to rise, had fallen back in his seat, and had turned his face +uncertainly, fearfully, yet with infinite longing, toward the blind +youth at his side. + +Susan looked then at Mrs. McGuire. Mrs. McGuire, too, was plainly +holding her breath suspended. On her face, too, were uncertainty, +fearfulness, and infinite longing. For a moment she watched the two +boys intently. Then she rose and with cautious steps made her way into +the house. After supper that night she came over and told Susan all +about it. Her face was beaming. + +"Did you see them?" she began breathlessly. "Wasn't it wonderful? A +whole half-hour those two blessed boys sat there an' talked; an' John +laughed twice, actually laughed." + +"Yes, I know," nodded Susan, her own face no less beaming. + +"An' to think how just last night I was scoldin' an' blamin' Keith +because he didn't come over these last three days. An' I never saw at +all what he was up to." + +"Up to?" frowned Susan. + +"Yes, yes! Don't you see? He did it on purpose--stayed away three +whole days, so John would miss him an' WANT him. An' John DID miss +him. Why, he listened for him all the time. I could just SEE he was +listenin'. An' that's what made me so angry, because Keith didn't +come. The idea!--My boy wantin' somebody, an' that somebody not there! + +"But I know now. I understand. An' I love him for it. He did it to +make him want him. An' it worked. Why, if he'd come before, every day, +just as usual, John wouldn't have talked with him. I know he wouldn't. +But now--oh, Susan, it was wonderful, wonderful! I watched 'em from +the window. I HAD to watch. I was afraid--still. An' of course I heard +some things. An', oh, Susan, it was wonderful, the way that boy +understood." + +"You mean--Keith?" + +"Yes. You see, first John began to talk just as he talks to us--ravin' +because he's so strong an' well, an' likely to live to be a hundred; +an' of how he'll look, one of these days, with his little tin cup held +out for pennies an' his sign, 'Please Help the Blind,' an' of what +he's got to look forward to all his life. Oh, Susan, it--it's enough +to break the heart of a stone, when he talks like that." + +Susan drew in her breath. + +"Don't you s'pose I know? Well, I guess I do! But what did Keith say +to him?" + +"Nothin'. An' that was the first wonderful thing. You see, we--we +always talk an' try to comfort him when he talks like that. But Keith +didn't. He just let him talk, with nothin' but just a sympathetic word +now an' then. But it wasn't long before I noticed a wonderful thing +was happenin'. Keith was beginnin' to talk--not about that awful tin +cup an' the pennies an' the sign, but about other things; first about +the rose in his hand. An' pretty quick John was talkin' about it, too. +He had the rose an' was smellin' of it. Then Keith had a new knife, +an' he passed that over, an' pretty quick I saw that John had that +little link puzzle of Keith's, an' was havin' a great time tryin' to +straighten it out. That's the first time I heard him laugh. + +"I began to realize then what Keith was doin'. He was fillin' John's +mind full of somethin' else beside himself, for just a minute, an' was +showin' him that there were things he could call by name, like the +rose an' the knife an' the puzzle, even if he couldn't SEE 'em. Oh, +Keith didn't SAY anything like that to him--trust him for that. But +before John knew it, he was DOIN' it--callin' things by name, I mean. + +"An' Keith is comin' again to-morrow. John TOLD me so. An' if you +could have seen his face when he said it! Oh, Susan, isn't it +wonderful?" she finished fervently, as she turned to go. + +"It is, indeed--wonderful," murmured Susan. But Susan's eyes were out +the window on Keith's face--Keith and his father were coming up the +walk talking; and on Keith's face was a light Susan had never seen +there before. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI + +MAZIE AGAIN + + +It came to be the accepted thing almost at once, then, that Keith +Burton and John McGuire should spend their mornings together on the +McGuires' back porch. In less than a fortnight young McGuire even +crossed the yard arm in arm with Keith to the Burtons' back porch and +sat there one morning. After that it was only a question as to which +porch it should be. That it would be one of them was a foregone +conclusion. + +Sometimes the two boys talked together. Sometimes they worked on one +of Keith's raised picture puzzles. Sometimes Keith read aloud from one +of his books. Whatever they did, their doing it was the source of +great interest to the entire neighborhood. Not only did Mrs. McGuire +and Susan breathlessly watch from their respective kitchens, but +friends and neighbors fabricated excuses to come to the two houses in +order to see for themselves; and children gathered along the +divisional fence and gazed with round eyes of wonder. But they gazed +silently. Everybody gazed silently. Even the children seemed to +understand that the one unpardonable sin was to let the blind boys on +the porch know that they were the objects of any sort of interest. + +One day Mazie Sanborn came. She brought a new book for Mrs. McGuire to +read--an attention she certainly had never before bestowed on John +McGuire's mother. She talked one half-minute about the book--and five +minutes about the beautiful new friendship between the two blind young +men. She insisted on going into the kitchen where she could see the +two boys on the porch. Then, before Mrs. McGuire could divine her +purpose and stop her, she had slipped through the door and out on to +the porch itself. + +"How do you do, gentlemen," she began blithely. "I just--" + +But the terrified Mrs. McGuire had her by the arm and was pulling her +back into the kitchen before she could finish her sentence. + +On the porch the two boys had leaped to their feet, John McGuire, in +particular, looking distressed and angry. + +"Who was that? Is anybody--there?" he demanded. + +"No, dear, not now." In the doorway Mrs. McGuire was trying to nod +assurance to the boys and frown banishment to Mazie Sanborn at one and +the same moment. + +"But there was--some one," insisted her son sharply. + +"Just some one that brought a book to me, dearie, an' she's gone now." +Frantically Mrs. McGuire was motioning Mazie to make her assertion the +truth. + +John McGuire sat down then. So, too, did Keith. But all the rest of +the morning John was nervously alert for all sounds. And his ears were +frequently turned toward the kitchen door. He began to talk again, +too, bitterly, of the little tin cup for the pennies and the sign +"Pity the Poor Blind." He lost all interest in Keith's books and +puzzles, and when he was not railing at the tragedy of his fate, he +was sitting in gloomy silence. + +Keith told Susan that afternoon that if Mrs. McGuire did not keep +people away from that porch when he was out there with John, he would +not answer for the consequences. Susan told Mrs. McGuire, and Mrs. +McGuire told Mazie Sanborn, at the same time returning the loaned +book--all of which did not tend to smooth Miss Mazie's already ruffled +feelings. + +To Dorothy Mazie expressed her mind on the matter. + +"I don't care! I'll never go there again--never!" she declared +angrily; "nor speak to Mrs. McGuire, nor that precious son of hers, +nor Keith Burton, either. So there!" + +"Oh, Mazie, but poor Keith isn't to blame," remonstrated Dorothy +earnestly, the color flaming into her face. + +"He is, too. He's just as bad as John McGuire. He jumped up and looked +just as cross as John McGuire did when I went out on to that porch. +And he doesn't ever really want to see us. You know he doesn't. He +just stands us because he thinks he's got to be polite." + +"But, Mazie, dear, he's so sensitive, and he feels his affliction +keenly, and--" + +"Oh, yes, that's right--stand up for him! I knew you would," snapped +Mazie crossly. "And everybody knows it, too--running after him the way +you do." + +"RUNNING AFTER HIM!" Dorothy's face was scarlet now. + +"Yes, running after him," reiterated the other incisively; "and you +always have--trotting over there all the time with books and puzzles +and candy and flowers. And--" + +"For shame, Mazie!" interrupted Dorothy, with hot indignation. "As if +trying to help that poor blind boy to while away a few hours of his +time were RUNNING AFTER HIM." + +"But he doesn't WANT you to while away an hour or two of his time. And +I should think you'd see he didn't. You could if you weren't so dead +in love with him, and--" + +"Mazie!" gasped Dorothy, aghast. + +"Well, it's so. Anybody can see that--the way you color up every time +his name is mentioned, and the way you look at him, with your heart in +your eyes, and--" + +"Mazie Sanborn!" gasped Dorothy again. Her face was not scarlet now. +It had gone dead white. She was on her feet, horrified, dismayed, and +very angry. + +"Well, I don't care. It's so. Everybody knows it. And when a fellow +shows so plainly that he'd rather be let alone, how you can keep +thrusting yourself--" + +But Dorothy had gone. With a proud lifting of her head, and a sharp +"Nonsense, Mazie, you are wild! We'll not discuss it any longer, +please," she had turned and left the room. + +But she remembered. She must have remembered, for she did not go near +the Burton homestead for a week. Neither did the next week nor the +next see her there. Furthermore, though the little stand in her room +had shown two new picture puzzles and a new game especially designed +for the blind, it displayed them no longer after those remarks of +Mazie Sanborn's. Not that Keith had them, however. Indeed, no. They +were buried deep under a pile of clothing in the farther corner of +Dorothy's bottom bureau drawer. + +At the Burton homestead Susan wondered a little at her absence. She +even said to Keith one day: + +"Why, where's Dorothy? We haven't see her for two weeks." + +"I don't know, I'm sure." + +The way Keith's lips came together over the last word caused Susan to +throw a keen glance into his face. + +"Now, Keith, I hope you two haven't been quarreling again," she +frowned anxiously. + +"'Again'! Nonsense, Susan, we never did quarrel. Don't be silly." The +youth shifted his position uneasily. + +"I'm thinkin' tain't always me that's silly," observed Susan, with +another keen glance. "That girl was gettin' so she come over jest +natural-like again, every little while, bringin' in one thing or +another, if 'twas nothin' more'n a funny story to make us laugh. An' +what I want to know is why she stopped right off short like this, for--" + +"Nonsense!" tossed Keith again, with a lift of his chin. Then, with an +attempt at lightness that was very near a failure, he laughed: "I +reckon we don't want her to come if she doesn't want to, do we, +Susan?" + +"Humph!" was Susan's only comment--outwardly. Inwardly she was vowing +to see that young woman and have it out with her, once for all. + +But Susan did not see her nor have it out with her; for, as it +happened, something occurred that night so all-absorbing and exciting +that even the unexplained absence of Dorothy Parkman became as nothing +beside it. + +With the abrupt suddenness that sometimes makes the long-waited-for +event a real shock, came the news of the death of the poor old woman +whose frail hand had held the wealth that Susan had coveted for Daniel +Burton and his son. + +The two men left the next morning on the four-hundred-mile journey +that would take them to the town where Nancy Holworthy had lived. + +Scarcely had they left the house before Susan began preparations for +their home-coming, as befitted their new estate. Her first move was to +get out all the best silver and china. She was busy cleaning it when +Mrs. McGuire came in at the kitchen door. + +"What's the matter?" she began breathlessly. + +"Where's Keith? John's been askin' for him all the mornin'. Is Mr. +Burton sick? They just telephoned from the store that Mr. Burton had +sent word that he wouldn't be down for a few days. He isn't sick, is +he?--or Keith? I couldn't make out quite all they said; but there was +somethin' about Keith. They ain't either of 'em sick, are they?" + +"Oh, no, they're both well--very well, thank you." There was an air, +half elation, half superiority, about Susan that was vaguely +irritating to Mrs. McGuire. + +"Well, you needn't be so secret about it, Susan," she began a little +haughtily. But Susan tossed her head with a light laugh. + +"Secret! I guess 't won't be no secret long. Mr. Daniel Burton an' +Master Keith have gone away, Mis' McGuire." + +"Away! You mean--a--a vacation?" frowned Mrs. McGuire doubtfully. + +Susan laughed again, still with that irritating air of superiority. + +"Well, hardly. This ain't no pleasure exertion, Mis' McGuire. Still, +on the other hand, Daniel Burton wouldn't be half humane if he didn't +get some pleasure out of it, though he wouldn't so demean himself as +to show it, of course. Mis' Nancy Holworthy is dead, Mis' McGuire. We +had the signification last night." + +"Not--you don't mean THE Nancy Holworthy--the one that's got the +money!" The excited interest in Mrs. McGuire's face and voice was as +great as even Susan herself could have desired. + +Susan obviously swelled with the glory of the occasion, though she +still spoke with cold loftiness. + +"The one and the same, Mis' McGuire." + +"My stars an' stockin's, you don't say! An' they've gone to the +funeral?" + +"They have." + +"An' they'll get the money now, I s'pose." + +"They will." + +"But are you sure? You know sometimes when folks expect the money they +don't get it. It's been willed away to some one else." + +"Yes, I know. But't won't be here," spoke Susan with decision. "Mis' +Holworthy couldn't if she'd wanted to. It's all foreordained an' fixed +beforehand. Daniel Burton was to get jest the annual while she lived, +an' then the whole in a plump sum when she died. Well, she's dead, an' +now he gets it. An' a right tidy little sum it is, too." + +"Was she awful rich, Susan?" + +"More'n a hundred thousand. A hundred an' fifty, I've heard say." + +"My gracious me! An' to think of Daniel Burton havin' a hundred and +fifty thousand dollars! What in the world will he do with it?" + +Susan's chin came up superbly. + +"Well, I can tell you one thing he'll do, Mis' McGuire. He'll stop +peddlin' peas an' beans over that counter down there, an' retire to a +life of ease an' laxity with his paint-brushes, as he ought to. An' +he'll have somethin' fit to eat an' wear, an' Keith will, too. An' +furthermore an' likewise you'll see SOME difference in this place, or +my name ain't Susan Betts. Them two men have got an awful lot to live +up to, an' I mean they shall understand it right away." + +"Which explains this array of china an' silver, I take it," observed +Mrs. McGuire dryly. + +"Eh? What?" frowned Susan doubtfully; then her face cleared. "Yes, +that's jest it. They've got to have things now fitted up to their new +estation. We shall get more, too. We need some new teaspoons an' +forks. An' I want 'em to get some of them bunion spoons." + +"BUNION spoons!" + +"Yes--when you eat soup out of them two-handled cups, you know. Or +maybe you don't know," she corrected herself, at the odd expression +that had come to Mrs. McGuire's face. "But I do. Mrs. Professor +Hinkley used to have 'em. They're awful pretty an' stylish, too. And +we've got to have a lot of other things--new china, an' some cut- +glass, an'--" + +"Well, it strikes me," interrupted Mrs. McGuire severely, "that Daniel +Burton had better be puttin' his money into Liberty Bonds an' Red +Cross work, instead of silver spoons an' cut-glass, in these war- +times. An'--" + +"My lan', Mis' McGuire!" With the sudden exclamation Susan had dropped +the spoon she was polishing. Her eyes, wild and incredulous, were +staring straight into the startled eyes of the woman opposite. "Do you +know? Since that yeller telegram came last night tellin' us Nancy +Holworthy was dead, I hain't even once thought of--the war." + +"Well, I guess you would think of it--if you had my John right before +you all the time." With a bitter sigh Mrs. McGuire had relaxed in her +chair. "You wouldn't need anything else." + +"Humph! I don't need anything else with Daniel Burton 'round." + +"What do you mean?" + +"Why, I mean that that man don't do nothin' but read war an' talk war +every minute he's in the house. An' what with them wheatless days an' +meatless days, he fairly EATS war. You heard my poem on them meatless, +wheatless days, didn't you?" + +Mrs. McGuire shook her head listlessly. Her somber eyes were on the +lonely figure of her son on the porch across the two back yards. + +"You didn't? Well, I'll say it to you, then. 'Tain't much; still, it's +kind of good, in a way. I hain't written hardly anything lately; but I +did write this: + + We've a wheatless day, + An' a meatless day, + An' a tasteless, wasteless, + sweetless day. + + But with never a pause, + For the good of the cause, + We'd even consent to an + eatless day. + +"An' we would, too, of course. + +"An' as far as that's concerned, there's a good many other kinds of +'less days that I'm thinkin' wouldn't hurt none of us. How about a +fretless day an' a worryless day? Wouldn't they be great? An' only +think what a talkless day'd mean in some households I could mention. +Oh, of course, present comp'ny always accentuated," she hastened to +add with a sly chuckle, as Mrs. McGuire stirred into sudden +resentment. + +"Humph!" subsided Mrs. McGuire, still a little resentfully. + +"An' I'm free to confess that there's some kinds of 'less days that +we've already got plenty of," went on Susan, after a moment's +thoughtful pause. "There is folks that take quite enough workless +days, an' laughless days, an' pityless days, an' thankless days. My +lan', there ain't no end to them kind, as any one can see. An' there +was them heatless days last winter--I guess no one was hankerin' for +more of THEM. Oh, 'course I understand that that was just preservation +of coal, an' that 'twas necessary, an' all that. An' that's another +thing, too--this preservation business. I'd like to add a few things +to that, an' make 'em preserve in fault-findin', an' crossness, an' +backbitin', an' gossip, as well as in coal, an' sugar, an' wheat, an' +beef." + +Mrs. McGuire gave a short laugh. + +"My goodness, Susan Betts, if you ain't the limit, an' no mistake! I +s'pose you mean CONservation." + +"Heh? What's that? Well, CONservation, then. What's the difference, +anyway?" she scoffed a bit testily. Then, abruptly, her face changed. +"But, there! this ain't settlin' what I'm going to do with Daniel +Burton," she finished with a profound sigh. + +"Do with him?" puzzled Mrs. McGuire. + +"Yes." Susan picked up the silver spoon and began indifferently to +polish it. "'Tain't no use for me to be doin' all this. Daniel Burton +won't know whether he's eatin' with a silver spoon or one made of +pewter. No more will he retire to a life of ease an' laxity with his +paint-brushes--unless they declarate peace to-morrow mornin'." + +"You don't mean--he'll stay in the store?" + +Susan made a despairing gesture. + +"Goodness only knows what he'll do--I don't. I know what he does now. +He's as uneasy as a fish out o' water, an' he roams the house from one +end to the other every night, after he reads the paper. He's got one +of them war maps on his wall, an' he keeps changin' the pins an' +flags, an' I hear him mutterin' under his breath. You see, he has to +keep it from Keith all he can, for Keith hisself feels so bad 'cause +he can't be up an' doin'; an' if he thought he was keepin' his father +back from helpin', I don't know what the poor boy would do. But I +think if 'twa'n't for Keith, Daniel Burton would try to enlist an' go +over. Oh, of course, he's beyond the malicious age, so far as bein' +drafted is concerned, an' you wouldn't naturally think such a mild- +tempered-lookin' man would go in much for killin'. But this war's +stirred him up somethin' awful." + +"Well, who wouldn't it?" + +"Oh, I know that; an' I ain't sayin' as how it shouldn't. But that +don't make it no easier for Daniel Burton to keep his feelin's hid +from his son, particularly when it's that son that's made him have the +feelin's, partly. There ain't no doubt but that one of the things +that's made Daniel Burton so fidgety an' uneasy, an' ready to jest +fling hisself into that ravin' conflict over there is his unhappiness +an' disappointment over Keith. He had such big plans for that boy!" + +"Yes, I know. We all have big plans for--our boys." Mrs. McGuire +choked and turned away. + +"An' girls, too, for that matter," hurried on Susan, with a quick +glance into the other's face. "An' speakin' of girls, did you see +Hattie Turner on the street last night?" + +Dumbly Mrs. McGuire answered with a shake of her head. Her eyes had +gone back to her son's face across the yard. + +"Well, I did. Her Charlie's at Camp Devens, you know. They say he's +invited to more places every Sunday than he can possibly accept; an' +that he's petted an' praised an' made of everywhere he goes, an' +tended right up to so's he won't get lonesome, or attend +unquestionable entertainments. Well, that's all right an' good, of +course, an' as it should be. But I wish somebody'd take up Charlie +Turner's wife an' invite her to Sunday dinners an' take her to ride, +an' see that she didn't attend unquestionable entertainments." + +"Why, Susan Betts, what an idea!" protested Mrs. McGuire, suddenly +sitting erect in her chair. "Hattie Turner isn't fightin' for her +country." + +"No, but her husband is," retorted Susan crisply. "An' she's fightin' +for her honor an' her future peace an' happiness, an' she's doin' it +all alone. She's pretty as a picture, an' nothin' but a child when he +married her four months ago, an' we've took away her natural pervider +an' entertainer, an' left her nothin' but her freedom for a ballast +wheel. An' I say I wish some of the patriotic people who are jest +showerin' every Charlie Turner with attentions would please sprinkle +jest a few on Charlie's wife, to help keep her straight an' sweet an' +honest for Charlie when he comes back." + +"Hm-m, maybe," murmured Mrs. McGuire, rising wearily to her feet; "but +there ain't many that thinks of that." + +"There'll be more think of it by an' by--when it's too late," observed +Susan succinctly, as she, too, rose from her chair. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII + +FOR THE SAKE OF JOHN + + +In due course Daniel Burton and his son Keith returned from the +funeral of their kinswoman, Mrs. Nancy Holworthy. + +The town, aware now of the stupendous change that had come to the +fortunes of the Burton family, stared, gossiped, shook wise heads of +prophecy, then passed on to the next sensation--which happened to be +the return of four soldiers from across the seas; three crippled, one +blinded. + +At the Burton homestead the changes did not seem so stupendous, after +all. True, Daniel Burton had abandoned the peddling of peas and beans +across the counter, and had, at the earnest solicitation of his son, +got out his easel and placed a fresh canvas upon it; but he obviously +worked half-heartedly, and he still roamed the house after reading the +evening paper, and spent even more time before the great war map on +his studio wall. + +True, also, disgruntled tradesmen no longer rang peremptory peals on +the doorbell, and the postman's load of bills on the first of the +month was perceptibly decreased. The dinner-table, too, bore evidence +that a scanty purse no longer controlled the larder, but no new china +or cut-glass graced the board, and Susan's longed-for bouillon spoons +had never materialized. Locks and doors and sagging blinds had +received prompt attention, and already the house was being prepared +for a new coat of paint; but no startling alterations or improvements +were promised by the evidence, and Keith was still to be seen almost +daily on the McGuire back porch, as before, or on his own, with John +McGuire. + +It is no wonder, surely, that very soon the town ceased to stare and +gossip, or even to shake wise heads of prophecy. + +Nancy Holworthy's death was two months in the past when one day Keith +came home from John McGuire's back porch in very evident excitement +and agitation. + +"Why, Keith, what's the matter? What IS the matter?" demanded Susan +concernedly. + +"Nothing. That is, I--I did not know I acted as if anything was the +matter," stammered the youth. + +"Well, you do. Now, tell me, what is it?" + +"Nothing, nothing, Susan. Nothing you can help." Keith was pacing back +and forth and up and down the living-room, not even using his cane to +define the familiar limits of his pathway. Suddenly he turned and +stopped short, his whole body quivering with emotion. "Susan, I can't! +I can't--stand it," he moaned. + +"I know, Keith. But, what is it--now?" + +"John McGuire. He's been telling me how it is--over there. Why, Susan, +I could see it--SEE it, I tell you, and, oh, I did so want to be there +to help. He told me how they held it--the little clump of trees that +meant so much to US, and how one by one they fell--those brave fellows +with him. I could see it. I could hear it. I could hear the horrid din +of the guns and shells, and the crash of falling trees about us; and +the shouts and groans of the men at our side. And they needed men-- +more men--to take the place of those that had fallen. Even one man +counted there--counted for, oh, so much!--for at the last there was +just one man left---John McGuire. And to hear him tell it--it was +wonderful, wonderful!" + +"I know, I know," nodded Susan. "It was like his letters--you could +SEE things. He MADE you see 'em. An' that's what he always did--made +you see things--even when he was a little boy. His mother told me. He +wanted to write, you know. He was goin' to be a writer, before--this +happened. An' now---" The sentence trailed off into the silence +unfinished. + +"And to think of all that to-day being wasted on a blind baby tied to +a picture puzzle," moaned Keith, resuming his nervous pacing of the +room. "If only a man--a real man could have heard him--one that could +go and do a man's work--! Why, Susan, that story, as he told it, would +make a stone fight. I never heard anything like it. I never supposed +there could be anything like that battle. He never talked like this, +until to-day. Oh, he's told me a little, from time to time. But to- +day, to-day, he just poured out his heart to me--ME!--and there are so +many who need just that message to stir them from their smug +complacency--men who could fight, and win: men who WOULD fight, and +win, if only they could see and hear and know, as I saw and heard and +knew this afternoon. And there it was, wasted, WASTED, worse than +wasted on--me!" + +Chokingly Keith turned away, but with a sudden cry Susan caught his +arm. + +"No, no, Keith, it wasn't wasted--you mustn't let it be wasted," she +panted. "Listen! You want others to hear it--what you heard--don't +you?" + +"Why, y-yes, Susan; but---" + +"Then make 'em hear it," she interrupted. "You can--you can!" + +"How?" + +"Make him write it down, jest as he talks. He can--he wants to. He's +always wanted to. Then publish it in a book, so everybody can see it +and hear it, as you did." + +"Oh, Susan, if we only could!" A dawning hope had come into Keith +Burton's face, but almost at once it faded into gray disappointment. +"We couldn't do it, though, Susan. He couldn't do it. You know he +can't write at all. He's only begun to practice a little bit. He'd +never get it down, with the fire and the vim in it, learning to write +as he'd have to. What do you suppose Lincoln's Gettysburg Speech would +have been if he'd had to stop to learn how to spell and to write each +word before he could put it down?" + +"I know, I know," nodded Susan. "It's that way with me in my poetry. I +jest HAVE to get right ahead while the fuse burns, an' spell 'em +somehow, anyhow, so's to get 'em down while I'm in the fit of it. He +couldn't do it. I can see that now. But, Keith, couldn't YOU do it?-- +take it down, I mean, as he talked, like a stylographer?" + +Keith shook his head. + +"I wish I could. But I couldn't, I know I couldn't. I couldn't begin +to do it fast enough to keep up with him, and 't would spoil it all to +have to ask him to slow down. When a man's got a couple of Huns coming +straight for him, and he knows he's got to get 'em both at once, you +can't very well sing out: 'Here, wait--wait a minute till I get that +last sentence down!'" + +"I know, I know," nodded Susan again. She paused, drew a long sigh, +and turned her eyes out the window. Up the walk was coming Daniel +Burton. His step was slow, his head was bowed. He looked like anything +but the happy possessor of new wealth. Susan frowned as she watched +him. + +"I wish your father---" she began. Suddenly she stopped. A new light +had leaped to her eyes. "Keith, Keith," she cried eagerly. "I have it! +Your father--he could do it--I know he could!" + +"Do what?" + +"Take down John McGuire's story. Couldn't he do it?" + +"Why, y-yes, he could, I think," hesitated Keith doubtfully. "He +doesn't know shorthand, but he--he's got eyes" (Keith's voice broke a +little) "and he could SEE what he was doing, and he could take down +enough of it so he could patch it up afterwards, I'm sure. But Susan, +John McGuire wouldn't TELL it to HIM. Don't you see? He won't even see +anybody but me, and he didn't talk like this even to me until to-day. +How's dad going to hear it to write it down? Tell me that?" + +"But he could overhear it, Keith. No, no, don't look like that," she +protested hurriedly, as Keith began to frown. "Jest listen a minute. +It would be jest as easy. He could be over on the grass right close, +where he could hear every word; an' you could get John to talkin', an' +as soon as he got really started on a story your father could begin to +write, an' John wouldn't know a thing about it; an'--" + +"Yes, you're quite right--John wouldn't know a thing about it," broke +in Keith, with a passion so sudden and bitter that Susan fell back in +dismay. + +"Why, Keith!" she exclaimed, her startled eyes on his quivering face. + +"I wonder if you think I'd do it!" he demanded. "I wonder if you +really think I'd cheat that poor fellow into talking to me just +because he hadn't eyes to see that I wasn't the only one in his +audience!" + +"But, Keith, he wouldn't mind; he wouldn't mind a bit," urged Susan, +"if he didn't know an'--" + +"Oh, no, he wouldn't mind being cheated and deceived and made a fool +of, just because he couldn't see!" + +"No, he wouldn't mind," persisted Susan stoutly. "It wouldn't be a +mean listenin', nor sneak listenin'. It wouldn't be listenin' to +things he didn't want us to hear. He'd be glad, after it was all done, +an'--" + +"Would he!" choked Keith, still more bitterly. "Maybe you think _I_ +was glad after it was all done, and I found I'd been fooled and +cheated into thinking the girl that was reading and talking to me and +playing games with me was a girl I had never known before--a girl who +was what she pretended to be, a new friend doing it all because she +wanted to, because she liked to." + +"But, Keith, I'm sure that Dorothy liked--" + +"There, there, Susan," interposed Keith, with quickly uplifted hand. +"We'll not discuss it, please, Yes, I know, I began the subject +myself, and it was my fault; but when I heard you say John McGuire +would be glad when he found out how we'd lied to his poor blind eyes, +I--I just couldn't hold it in. I had to say something. But never mind +that now, Susan; only you'll--you'll have to understand I mean what I +say. There's no letting dad copy that story on the sly." + +"But there's a way, there must be a way," argued Susan feverishly. +"Only think what it would mean to that boy if we could get him started +to writin' books--what he's wanted to do all his life. Oh, Keith, why, +he'd even forget his eyes then." + +"It would--help some." Keith drew in his breath and held it a moment +suspended. "And he'd even be helping us to win out--over there; for if +we could get that story of his on paper as he told it to me, the +fellow that reads it wouldn't need any recruiting station to send him +over there. If there was only a way that father could--" + +"There is, an' we'll find it," interposed Susan eagerly. "I know we +will. An' Keith, it's goin' to be 'most as good for him as it is for +John McGuire. He's nervous as a witch since he quit his job." + +"I know." A swift cloud crossed the boy's face. "But 'twasn't giving +up his job that's made him nervous, Susan, as you and I both know very +well. However, we'll see. And you may be sure if there is a way I'll +find it, Susan," he finished a bit wearily, as he turned to go +upstairs. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII + +THE WAY + + +Keith was still looking for "the way," when October came, bringing +crisp days and chilly winds. When not too cold, the boys still sat out +of doors. When it was too cold, John McGuire did not appear at all on +his back porch, and Keith did not have the courage to make a bold +advance to the McGuire door and ask admittance. There came a day, +however, when a cold east wind came up after they were well +established in their porch chairs for the morning. They were on the +Burton porch this time, and Keith suddenly determined to take the bull +by the horns. + +"Brrr! but it's cold this morning," he shivered blithely. "What say +you? Let's go in. Come on." And without waiting for acquiescence, he +caught John McGuire's arm in his own and half pulled him to his feet. +Before John McGuire knew then quite what was happening, he found +himself in the house. + +"No, no!--that is, I--I think I'd better be going home," he stammered. + +But Keith Burton did not seem even to hear. + +"Say, just try your hand at this puzzle," he was saying gayly. "I gave +it up, and I'll bet you'll have to," he finished, thrusting a +pasteboard box into his visitor's hands and nicely adjudging the +distance a small table must be pushed in order to bring it +conveniently in front of John McGuire's chair. + +The quick tightening of John McGuire's lips and the proud lifting of +his chin told that Keith's challenge had been accepted even before the +laconic answer came. + +"Oh, you do, do you? Well, we'll see whether I'll have to give it up +or not." + +John McGuire loved picture puzzles, as Keith Burton well knew. + +It was easy after that. Keith took it so unhesitatingly for granted +that they were to go indoors when it was cold that John McGuire found +it difficult to object; and it was not long before the two boys were +going back and forth between the two houses with almost as much ease +as if their feet had been guided by the eye instead of by the tap of a +slender stick. + +John McGuire was learning a great deal from Keith these days, though +it is doubtful if he realized it. It is doubtful, also, if he realized +how constantly he was being made to talk of the war and of his +experience in it. But Keith realized it. Keith was not looking for +"the way" now. He believed he had found it; and there came a day when +he deemed the time had come to try to carry it out. + +They were in his own home living-room. It had been a wonderful story +that John McGuire had told that day of a daring excursion into No +Man's Land, and what came of it. Upstairs in the studio Daniel Burton +was sitting alone, as Keith knew. Keith drew a long breath and made +the plunge. Springing to his feet he turned toward the door that led +into the hall. + +"McGuire, that was a bully story--a corking good story. I want dad to +hear it. Wait, I'll get him." And he was out of the room with the door +fast closed behind him before John McGuire could so much as draw a +breath. + +Upstairs, Daniel Burton, already in the secret, heard Keith's eager +summons and came at once. For some days he had been expecting just +such an urgent call from Keith's lips. He knew too much to delay. He +was down the stairs and at Keith's side in an incredibly short time. +Then together they pushed open the door and entered the living-room. + +John McGuire was on his feet. Very plainly he was intending to go +home, and at once. But Daniel Burton paid no attention to that. He +came straight toward him and took his hand. + +"I call this mighty good of you, McGuire," he said. "My boy here has +been raving about your stories of the war until I'm fairly green with +envy. Now I'm to hear a bit of them myself, he says. I wish you would +tell me some of your experiences, my lad. You know a chance like this +is a real god-send to us poor stay-at-homes. Now fire away! I'm +ready." + +But John McGuire was not ready. True, he sat down--but not until after +a confused "No, no, I must go home--that is, really, they're not worth +repeating--those stories." And he would not talk at all--at first. + +Daniel Burton talked, however. He talked of wars in general and of the +Civil War in particular; and he told the stories of Antietam and +Gettysburg as they had been told to him by his father. Then from +Gettysburg he jumped to Flanders, and talked of aeroplanes, and gas- +masks, and tanks, and trenches, and dugouts. + +Little by little then John McGuire began to talk--sometimes a whole +sentence, sometimes only a word or two. But there was no fire, no +enthusiasm, no impetuous rush of words that brought the very din of +battle to their ears. And not once did Daniel Burton thrust his +fingers into his pocket for his pencil and notebook. Yet, when it was +all over, and John McGuire had gone home, Keith dropped into his chair +with a happy sigh. + +"It wasn't much, dad, I know," he admitted, "but it was something. It +was a beginning, and a beginning is something--with John McGuire." + +And it was something; for the next time Daniel Burton entered the +room, John McGuire did not even start from his chair. He gave a faint +smile of welcome, too, and he talked sooner, and talked more--though +there was little of war talk; and for the second time Daniel Burton +did not reach for his pencil. + +But the third time he did. A question, a comment, a chance word-- +neither Keith nor his father could have told afterward what started +it. They knew only that a sudden light as of a flame leaped into John +McGuire's face--and he was back in the trenches of France and carrying +them with him. + +At the second sentence Daniel Burton's fingers were in his pocket, and +at the third his pencil was racing over the paper at breakneck speed. +There was no pause then, no time for thought, no time for careful +forming of words and letters. There was only the breakneck race +between a bit of lead and an impassioned tongue; and when it was all +over, there were only a well-nigh hopeless-looking mass of +hieroglyphics in Daniel Burton's notebook--and the sweat of spent +excitement on the brows of two youths and a man. + +"Gee! we got it that time!" breathed Keith, after John McGuire had +gone home. + +"Yes; only I was wondering if I had really--got it," murmured Daniel +Burton, eyeing a bit ruefully the confused mass of words and letters +in his notebook. "Still, I reckon I can dig it out all right--if I do +it right away," he finished confidently. And he did dig it out before +he slept that night. + +If Daniel Burton and his son Keith thought the thing was done, and it +was going to be easy sailing thereafter, they found themselves greatly +mistaken. John McGuire scarcely said five sentences about the war the +next time they were together, though Daniel Burton had his pencil +poised expectantly from the start. He said only a little more the next +time, and the next; and Daniel Burton pocketed his pencil in despair. +Then came a day when a chance word about a new air raid reported in +the morning paper acted like a match to gunpowder, and sent John +McGuire off into a rapid-fire story that whipped Daniel Burton's +pencil from his pocket and set it to racing again at breakneck speed +to keep up with him. + +It was easier after that. Still, every day it was like a game of hide- +and-seek, with Daniel Burton and his pencil ever in pursuit, and with +now and then a casual comment or a tactful question to lure the hiding +story out into the open. Little by little, as the frank comradeship of +Daniel Burton won its way, John McGuire was led to talk more and more +freely; and by Christmas the eager scribe was in possession of a very +complete record of John McGuire's war experiences, dating even from +the early days of his enlistment. + +Day by day, as he had taken down the rough notes, Daniel Burton had +followed it up with a careful untangling and copying before he had had +a chance to forget, or to lose the wonderful glow born of the +impassioned telling. Then, from time to time he had sorted the notes +and arranged them in proper sequence, until now he had a complete +story, logical and well-rounded. + +It was on Christmas Day that he read the manuscript to Keith. At its +conclusion Keith drew a long, tremulous breath. + +"Dad, it's wonderful!" he exclaimed. "How did you do it?" + +"You know. You heard yourself." + +"Yes; but to copy it like that--! Why, I could hear him tell it as you +read it, dad. I could HEAR him." + +"Could you, really? I'm glad. That makes me know I've succeeded. Now +for a publisher!" + +"You wouldn't publish it without his--knowing?" + +"Certainly not. But I'm going to let a publisher see it, before he +knows." + +"Y-yes, perhaps." + +"Why, Keith, I'd have to do that. Do you suppose I'd run the risk of +its being turned down, and then have to tell that boy that he couldn't +have the book, after all?" + +"No, no, I suppose not. But--it isn't going to be turned down, dad. +Such a wonderful thing can't be turned down." + +"Hm-m; perhaps not." Daniel Burton's lips came together a bit grimly. +"But--there ARE wonderful things that won't sell, you know. However," +he finished with brisk cheerfulness, "this isn't one of my pictures, +nor a bit of Susan's free verse; so there's some hope, I guess. +Anyhow, we'll see--but we won't tell John until we do see." + +"All right. I suppose that would be best," sighed Keith, still a +little doubtfully. + +They had not long to wait, after all. In a remarkably short time came +back word from the publishers. Most emphatically they wanted the book, +and they wanted it right away. Moreover, the royalty they offered was +so good that it sent Daniel Burton down the stairs two steps at a time +like a boy, in his eagerness to reach Keith with the good news. + +"And now for John!" he cried excitedly, as soon as Keith's joyous +exclamations over the news were uttered. "Come, let's go across now." + +"But, dad, how--how are you going to tell him?" Keith was holding back +a little. + +"Tell him! I'm just going to tell him," laughed the man. "That's +easy." + +"I know; but--but---" Keith wet his lips and started again. "You see, +dad, he didn't know we were taking notes of his stories. He couldn't +see us. We--we took advantage of---" + +But Daniel Burton would not even listen. + +"Shucks and nonsense, Keith!" he cried. Then a little grimly he added: +"I only wish somebody'd take advantage like that of me, and sell a +picture or two when I'm not looking. Come, we're keeping John +waiting." And he took firm hold of his son's arm. + +Yet in the McGuire living-room, in the presence of John McGuire +himself, he talked fully five minutes of nothing in particular, before +he said: + +"Well, John, I've got some good news for you." + +"GOOD news?" + +"That's what I'd call it. I--er--hear you're going to have a book out +in the spring." + +"I'm going to--WHAT?" + +"Have a book out--war stories. They were too good to keep to +ourselves, John, so I jotted them down as you told them, and last week +I sent them off to a publisher." + +"A--a real publisher?" The boy's voice shook. Every trace of color had +drained from his face. + +"You bet your life--and one of the biggest in the country." Daniel +Burton's own voice was shaking. He had turned his eyes away from John +McGuire's face. + +"And they'll--print it?" + +"Just as soon as ever you'll sign the contract. And, by the way, that +contract happens to be a mighty good one, for a first book, my boy." + +John McGuire drew a long breath. The color was slowly coming back to +his face. + +"But I can't seem to quite--believe it," he faltered. + +"Nonsense! Simplest thing in the world," insisted Daniel Burton +brusquely. "They saw the stories, liked them, and are going to publish +them. That's all." + +"All! ALL!" The blind boy was on his feet, his face working with +emotion. "When all my life I've dreamed and dreamed and longed for---" +He stopped short and sat down. He had the embarrassed air the +habitually reserved person usually displays when caught red-handed +making a "scene." He gave a confused laugh. "I was only thinking--what +a way. You see--I'd always wanted to be a writer, but I'd given it up +long ago. I had my living to earn, and I knew I couldn't earn it--that +way--not at first. I used to say I'd give anything if I could write a +book; and I was just wondering if--if I'd been willing then to have +given--my eyes!" + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX + +DOROTHY TRIES HER HAND + + +It was on a mild day early in February that Susan met Dorothy Parkman +on the street. She stopped her at once. + +"Well, if I ain't glad to see you!" she cried. "I didn't know you'd +got back." + +"I haven't been back long, Susan." + +"You hain't been over to see us once, Miss Dorothy," Susan reproached +her. + +"I--I have been very busy." Miss Dorothy seemed ill at ease, and +anxious to get away. + +"An' you didn't come for a long, long time when you was here last +fall." Susan had laid a detaining hand on the girl's arm now. + +"Didn't I?" Miss Dorothy smiled brightly. "Well, perhaps I didn't. But +you didn't need me, anyway. I've heard all about it--the splendid work +Mr. Burton and his son have done for John McGuire. And I'm so glad." + +"Oh, yes, that's all right." Susan spoke without enthusiasm. + +"And the book is going to be published?" + +"Yes, oh, yes." Susan still spoke with a preoccupied frown. + +"Why, Susan, what's the matter? I thought you'd be glad." + +Susan drew a long sigh. + +"I am glad, Miss Dorothy. I'm awful glad--for John McGuire. They say +it's wonderful, the change in him already. He's so proud an' happy to +think he's done it--not sinfully proud, you understand, but just +humbly proud an' glad. An' his ma says he's writin' other things now-- +poems an' stories, an' he's as happy as a lark all day. An' I'm awful +glad. But it's Keith hisself that I'm thinkin' of. You see, only +yesterday I found him--cryin'." + +"Crying!" Miss Dorothy seemed to have forgotten all about her haste to +get away. She had Susan's arm in HER grasp now. She had pulled her to +one side, too, where they could have a little sheltered place to talk, +in the angle of two store windows. + +"Yes, cryin'. You see, 't was like this," hurried on Susan. "Mis' +McGuire was over, an' I'd been readin' a new poem to her an' him. 'T +was a real pretty one, too, if I do say it as shouldn't--the best I +ever done; all about how fame an' beauty an' pleasure didn't count +nothin' beside workin'. I got the idea out of something I found in a +magazine. 'T was jest grand; an' it give me the perspiration right +away to turn it into a poem. An' I did. An' 't was that I was readin'. +I'd jest got it done that mornin'." + +"Yes, yes," nodded Miss Dorothy. "I see." + +"Well, I never thought of its meanin' anything to Keith, or of his +takin' it nohow wrong; but after Mis' McGuire had gone home (she came +out an' set with me a spell first in the kitchen) I heard a queer +little noise in the settin'-room, an' I went an' looked in. Keith was +at the table, his arms flung straight out in front of him, an' his +head bowed down. An', Miss Dorothy, he was cryin' like a baby." + +"Oh, Susan, what did you do? What did you say?" + +"Say? Nothin'!" Susan's eyes flashed her scorn. "Do you s'pose I'd let +that poor lamb know I see him cryin'? Well, I guess not! I backed out +as soft as a feather bed, an' I didn't go near that settin'-room for +an hour, nor let any one else. I was a regular dragon-fly guardin' it. +Well, by an' by Keith comes out. His face was white an' strained- +lookin'. But he was smiling, an' he handed out my poem--I'd left it on +the table when I come out with Mis' McGuire. 'I found this paper on +the table, Susan. It's your poem, isn't it?' he says real cheerful- +like. Then he turns kind of quick an' leaves the room without another +word. + +"Well, I didn't know then that't was the poem he'd been cryin' over. I +didn't know--till this mornin'. Then somethin' he said made me see +right off." + +"Why, Susan, what was it?" + +"It was somethin' about--work. But first you wouldn't understand it, +unless you see the poem. An' I can show it to you, 'cause I've got it +right here. I'm tryin' to memorialize it, so I keep it with me all the +time, an' repeat one line over an' over till I get it. It's right here +in my bag. You'll find it's the best I've wrote, Miss Dorothy; I'm +sure you will," she went on a bit wistfully. "You see I used a lot of +the words that was in the magazine--not that I pleasurized it any, of +course. Mine's different, 'cause mine is poetry an' theirs is prosy. +There! I guess maybe you can read it, even if't is my writin'," she +finished, taking a sheet of note-paper from her bag and carefully +spreading it out for Miss Dorothy to read. + +And this is what Dorothy read: + + CONTENTMENT + + Wealth + I asked for the earth--but when in my hands + It shriveled and crumbled away; + And the green of its trees and the blue of its skies + Changed to a somber gray. + + Beauty + I asked for the moon--but the shimmering thing + Was only reflected gold, + And vanished away at my glance and touch, + And was then but a tale that is told. + + Pleasure + I asked for the stars--and lots of them came, + And twinkled and danced for me; + But the whirling lights soon wearied my gaze-- + I squenched their flame in the sea. + + Fame + I asked for the sun!--but the fiery ball, + Brought down from its home on high, + Scorched and blistered my finger tips, + As I swirled it back to the sky. + + Labor + I asked for a hoe, and I set me to work, + And my red blood danced as I went: + At night I rested, and looking back, + I counted my day well spent. + +"But, Susan, I don't see," began Miss Dorothy, lifting puzzled eyes +from the last line of the poem, "I don't see what there is about that +to make Mr. Keith--cry." + +"No, I didn't, till this mornin'; an' then--Well, Keith came out into +the kitchen an' begun one of them tramps of his up an' down the room. +It always drives me nearly crazy when he does that, but I can't say +anything, of course. I did begin this mornin' to talk about John +McGuire an' how fine it was he'd got somethin' he could do. I +thought't would take the poor boy's mind off hisself, if I could get +him talkin' about John McGuire---he's been SO interested in John all +winter! An' so glad he could help him. You know he's always so wanted +to HELP somebody hisself instead of always havin' somebody helpin' +him. But, dear me, instead of its bein' a quieter now for him, it was +a regular stirrup. + +"'That's just it, that's just it, Susan,' he moans. 'You've got to +have work or you die. There's nothin' in the whole world like work-- +YOUR WORK! John McGuire's got his work, an' I'm glad of it. But +where's mine? Where's mine, I tell you?' + +"An' I told him he'd jest been havin' his work, helpin' John McGuire. +You know it was wonderful, perfectly wonderful, Miss Dorothy, the way +them two men got hold of John McGuire. You know John wouldn't speak to +anybody, not anybody, till Keith an' his father found some way to get +on the inside of his shell. An' Keith's been so happy all winter doin' +it; an' his father, too. So I tried to remind him that he'd been doin' +his work. + +"But it didn't do no good. Keith said that was all very well, an' he +was glad, of course; but that was only a little bit of a thing, an' 't +was all past an' gone, an' John didn't need 'em any more, an' there +wasn't anything left for him now at all. Oh, Miss Dorothy, he talked +awfully. I never heard him run on so. An' I knew, from a lot of it +that he said, that he was thinkin' of that poem--he wouldn't ask for +wealth or beauty or fame, or anything, an' that there didn't anything +count but labor. You see?" + +"Yes, I--see." Miss Dorothy's voice was very low. Her face was turned +quite away, yet Susan was very sure that there were tears in her eyes. + +"An' his father!--he's 'most as bad as Keith," sighed Susan. "They're +both as nervous as witches, what with the war an' all, an' they not +bein' able to do anything. Oh, they do give money--lots of it--Liberty +Bonds an' Red Cross, an' drives, of course. You knew they'd got it +now--their money, didn't you, Miss Dorothy?" + +"Yes, I had heard so." + +"Not that it seems to do 'em any particular good," complained Susan +wistfully. "Oh, of course things ain't so--so ambiguous as they was, +an' we have more to eat an' wear, an' don't have to worry about bills. +But they ain't any happier, as I can see. If only Keith could find +somethin'--" + +"Yes, I know," sighed Miss Dorothy again, as she turned slowly away. +"I wish he--could." + +"Well, come to see us, won't you?" urged Susan anxiously. "That'll +help some--it'll help a lot." + +But Miss Dorothy did not seem to have heard. At least she did not +answer. Yet not twenty-four hours later she was ringing the Burtons' +doorbell. + +"No, no--not there! I want to see YOU," she panted a little +breathlessly, when Susan would have led the way to the living-room. + +"But Keith would be so glad--" begged Susan. + +"No, no! I particularly don't want him to know I am here," insisted +Dorothy. + +And without further ado, but with rebellious lips and eyes, Susan led +the way to the kitchen. + +"Susan, I have a scheme, I think, that may help out Mr. Keith," began +the young girl abruptly. "I'll have to begin by telling you something +of what I've seen during these last two or three months, while I've +been away. A Mr. Wilson, an old college friend of my father's, has +been taking a lot of interest in the blind--especially since the war. +He got to thinking of the blinded soldiers and wishing he could help +them. He had seen some of them in Canada, and talked with them. What +he thought of first for them was brooms, and basket-weaving and chair- +caning, same as everybody does. But he found they had a perfect horror +of those things. They said nobody bought such things except out of +pity--they'd rather have the machine-made kind. And these men didn't +want things bought of them out of pity. You see, they were big, well, +strong, young fellows, like John McGuire here; and they were groping +around, trying to find a way to live all those long years of darkness +that they knew were ahead of them. They didn't have any especial +talent. But they wanted to work,--do something that was necessary--not +be charity folks, as they called it." + +"I know," responded Susan sympathetically. + +"Well, this Mr. Wilson is at the head of a big electrical machinery +manufacturing company near Chicago, like Mr. Sanborn's here, you know. +And suddenly one day it came to him that he had the very thing right +in his own shop--a necessary kind of work that the blind could be +taught to do." + +"My lan', what was it? Think of blind folks goin' to work in a big +shop like Tom Sanborn's!" + +"I know it. But there was something. It was wrapping the coils of wire +with tape. Mr. Wilson said they used hundreds of thousands of these +coils all the time, and they had to be wrapped to insulate them. It +was this work that he believed the blind could learn to do. Anyhow, he +determined to try it. And try it he did. He sent for those soldiers he +had talked with in Canada, and he took two or three of father's +patients, and opened a little winding-room with a good electrical +engineer in charge. And, do you know? it was wonderful, the way those +poor fellows took hold of that work! Why, they got really skillful in +no time, and they learned to do it swiftly, too." + +"My lan'!" breathed Susan again. + +"They did. He took me in to see them one day. It was just a big room +on the ground floor of an office building. He didn't put them in his +shop. He said he wanted to keep them separate, for the present, +anyway. It had two or three long tables, and the superintendent moved +up and down the room overseeing their work, and helping where it was +necessary. There was a new man that morning, and it was perfectly +wonderful how he took hold of it. And they were all so happy, laughing +and talking, and having the best time ever; but they sobered up real +earnest when Mr. Wilson introduced one or two of them to me. One man +in particular--he was one of the soldiers, a splendid, great, blond +fellow six feet tall, and only twenty-one--told me what this work +meant to them; how glad they were to feel of real use in the world. +Then his face flushed, and his shoulders straightened a bit. 'And +we're even helping a little to win the war,' he said, 'for these coils +we are winding now are for some armatures to go in some big motors +that are going to be used in making munitions. So you see, we are +helping--a little.' Bless his heart! He didn't know how much he was +helping every one, just by his big, brave courage. + +"Well, Susan, all this gave me an idea, after what you said yesterday +about Mr. Keith. And I wondered--why couldn't he wind coils, too? And +maybe he'd get others to do it also. So I went to Mr. Sanborn, and +he's perfectly willing to let us give it a trial. He's pleased and +interested, and says he will furnish everything for the experiment, +including a first-class engineer to superintend; only he can't spend +any time over it himself, and we'll have to get somebody else to take +charge and make arrangements, about the place, and the starting of it, +and all that. And, Susan, now comes my second idea. Could we--do you +suppose we could get Mr. Daniel Burton to take charge of it?" + +"Oh, Miss Dorothy, if we only could!" + +"It would be so fine for Mr. Keith, and for all the others. I've been +hearing everywhere how wonderfully he got hold of John McGuire." + +"He did, he did," cried Susan, "an' he was like a different man all +the time he was doin' it. He hain't had no use for his paintin' +lately, an' he's been so uneasy. I'm sure he'll do it, if you ask +him." + +"Good! Then I will. Is--is he at home to-day?" + +"Yes, he's upstairs. I'll call him." Susan sprang to her feet with +alacrity. + +"But, Susan, just a minute!" Miss Dorothy had put out a detaining +hand. "Is--is Mr. Keith here, too?" + +"Yes, both of 'em. Keith is in the settin'-room an' I'll call his +father down. 'T won't take but jest a minute." Susan was plainly +chafing at the detaining hand. + +"No, no, Susan!" Miss Dorothy, too, had sprung to her feet. "If--if +Mr. Keith is here I'll wait. I want to see Mr. Daniel Burton first-- +er--alone: to--to tell him about it, you know," she added hastily, as +Susan began to frown her disappointment. + +"But I don't see why," argued Susan, her disapproving eyes on the +girl's flushed cheeks. "I should think you'd want to talk it up with +both of 'em." + +"Yes, yes, of course; but not--not at first," stammered Miss Dorothy, +plainly growing more and more embarrassed as she tried to appear less +so. "I would rather--er--that is, I think it would be better to ask +Mr. Daniel Burton first, and then after we get it well started let him +tell his son. So I'll come to-morrow in the morning--at ten. Mr. Keith +is with Mr. John McGuire, then, isn't he? And over at his house? I +heard he was." + +"Yes, he is, most generally." + +"Then I'll come then. If--if you'll tell Mr. Daniel Burton, please," +hurried on Miss Dorothy, "and ask him to see me. And please, PLEASE +keep it from Mr. Keith, Susan. Truly, I don't want him to know a thing +about it till his father and I have--have got it all fixed up," she +finished. + +"But, Miss Dorothy, I know that Keith would want---" + +"Susan!" With an imperiousness quite foreign to her usual manner, Miss +Dorothy cut in sharply. "If you don't promise to speak only to Mr. +Daniel Burton about this matter I shall not come at all." + +"Oh, lan' sakes! Well, well, have it your own way," snapped Susan. + +"You promise?" + +"Yes, I promise." Susan's lips obeyed, but her eyes were still +mutinous. + +"Good! Thank you, Susan. Then I'll come to-morrow at ten," nodded Miss +Dorothy, once again her smiling, gracious self, as she turned to leave +the room. + + + + +CHAPTER XXX + +DANIEL BURTON'S "JOB" + + +Dorothy came at ten, or, to be strictly accurate, at five minutes past +ten. The additional five minutes had been consumed by her going out of +her way around the block so that she might see if Keith were visible +in one of the McGuires' windows. He was visible--and when she went up +the Burton walk at five minutes past ten, her step was confident and +her face eager; and there was about her manner none of the furtive, +nervous questioning that had marked her coming the day before. + +"Good-morning, Susan," she began cheerily, as Susan answered her ring. +"Did Mr. Burton say he would see me?" + +"He did. And Mr. Keith is over to the McGuires' all safe, so you don't +have to worry about him." Susan's eyes were still mutinous, her voice +still coldly disapproving. + +"Yes, I know he is," nodded Miss Dorothy with a bright smile. + +"Oh, you do!" + +"Yes. Well, that is--er--I--" Under Susan's uncompromising frigidity +Miss Dorothy's stammering tongue came to a painful pause. + +"Humph!" vouchsafed Susan. "Well, come in, an' I'll tell Mr. DANIEL +Burton you're here." + +That the emphasis on "Daniel" was not lost was shown by the sudden +broad smile that chased away the confusion on Miss Dorothy's face, as +Susan led the way to the living-room. Two minutes later Daniel Burton, +thinner, paler, and more worn-looking than Dorothy had ever seen him +before, entered the room and held out a cordial hand. + +"Good-morning, Miss Dorothy. I'm glad to see you," he said. "What is +it,--Red Cross, Y.M.C.A., Smileage Books?" The whimsical smile on his +lips only served to emphasize the somber pain in his eyes. + +"Not any of them. Then Susan didn't tell you?" + +"Not a word. Sit down, please." + +"Thank you. Then I shall have to begin at the beginning," sighed the +girl a little constrainedly as she took the chair he offered her. "I-- +I have a certain project that I want to carry out, Mr. Burton, and I-- +I want your help." + +"Why, of course--certainly. I shall be glad to, I know." Daniel +Burton's hand had already reached for his check-book. "Any project of +yours, Miss Dorothy--! How much do you want?" + +But Miss Dorothy lifted her hand, palm outward. + +"Thank you, Mr. Burton; but not any--in money, just yet. Oh, it'll +take money, probably, to get it started, before it's on a self- +supporting basis, I suppose. But it isn't money I want to-day, Mr. +Burton. It--it's yourself." + +The man gave a short, dry laugh, not untinged with bitterness. + +"I'm afraid I can't endorse either your taste or your judgment there, +Miss Dorothy. You've come for a poor stick. I can't imagine myself as +being much benefit to any sort of project. However, I shall be glad to +hear about it, of course. What is it?" + +And Miss Dorothy told him. With her eyes shining, and her voice +quivering with eagerness, she told the story as she had told it to +Susan the afternoon before, but with even greater elaboration of +detail. + +"And so now, Mr. Burton, you--you will help, won't you?" she begged, +in closing. + +"Help! But my dear girl, how?" + +"Take charge. Be the head and shoulders, the backbone of the whole +thing. Oh, yes, I know it's a whole lot to ask," she hurried on, as +she saw the dawning dismay and refusal in his face. "But I thought, +for the sake of the cause--" + +"The cause!" The man's voice was bitter as he interrupted her. "I'd +crawl to France on my hands and knees if that would do any good! But, +my dear young lady, I'm an ignoramus, and worse than an ignoramus, +when it comes to machinery. I'll venture to wager that I wouldn't know +the tape from the coils--or whatever they are." + +"Oh, we'd have an engineer for that part, of course," interposed the +girl eagerly. "And we want your son, too." + +"You want Keith! Pray, do you expect him to teach how to wind coils?" + +"No--no--not exactly;--though I think he will be teaching before he +realizes it. I want him to learn to wind them himself, and thus get +others to learn. You don't understand, Mr. Burton. I want you and Mr. +Keith to--to do just what you did for John McGuire--arouse interest +and enthusiasm and get them to do it. Don't you see?" + +"But that was Keith, not I, in the case of John McGuire." + +"It was you at the last," corrected the girl gently. "Mr. Burton, John +McGuire wouldn't have any book out this spring if it weren't for you +and--your eyes." + +"Hm-m, perhaps not. Still there'd have been a way, probably. But even +if I grant that--all you say in the case of John McGuire--that isn't +winding armatures, or whatever they are." + +"Mr. Burton, you aren't going to refuse," pleaded the girl. + +"What else can I do? Miss Dorothy, you don't want to stamp this +project of yours a FAILURE from the start, do you?" Words, voice, +manner, and gesture were unmistakable. All the longing and heartache +and bitterness of years of fruitless effort and final disappointment +pulsated through that one word FAILURE. + +For a moment nobody spoke. Daniel Burton had got to his feet and +crossed the room to the window. The girl, watching him with +compassionate eyes as he stood looking out, had caught her breath with +a little choking sigh. Suddenly she lifted her head resolutely. + +"Mr. Burton, you've got one gift that--that I don't believe you +realize at all that you possess. Like John McGuire you can make folks +SEE what you are talking about. Perhaps it's because you can paint +pictures with a brush. Or--or perhaps it's because you've got such a +wonderful command of words."(Miss Dorothy stumbled a little +precipitately into this sentence--she had not failed to see the +disdainful movement of the man's head and shoulders at the mention of +his pictures.) "Whatever it is," she hurried on, "you've got it. I saw +it first years ago, with--with your son, when I used to see him at +father's. He would sit and talk to me by the hour about the woods and +fields and mountains, the sunsets and the flowers back home; and +little by little I found out that they were the pictures you drew for +him--on the canvas of his soul. You've done it again now for John +McGuire. Do you suppose you could have caught those wonderful stories +of his with your pencil, if you hadn't been able to help him visualize +them for himself--you and Keith together with your wonderful +enthusiasm and interest? + +"I know you couldn't. And that's what I want you now for--you and your +son. Because he is blind, and knows, and understands, as no seeing +person can know and understand, they will trust him; they will follow +where he leads. But behind him has got to be YOU. You've got to be the +eyes for--for them all; not to teach the work--we'll have others for +that. Any good mechanic will do for that part. But it's the other part +of it--the soul of the thing. These men, lots of them, are but little +more than boys--big, strong, strapping fellows with the whole of life +before them. And they are--blind. Whichever way they turn a big black +curtain shuts them in. And it's those four black curtains that I want +you to paint. I want you to give them something to look at, something +to think of, something to live for. And you can do it. And when you +have done it, you'll find they're the best and--and the biggest +pictures you ever painted." Her voice broke with the last word and +choked into silence. + +Over at the window the man stood motionless. One minute, two minutes +passed. Then a bit abruptly he turned, crossed the room to the girl's +side, and held out his hand. + +"Miss Dorothy, I--I'll take the job," he said. + +He spoke lightly, and he smiled as he said the words; but neither the +smile nor the lightness of his manner quite hid the shake in his voice +nor the moisture in his eyes. + +"Thank you, Mr. Burton. I was sure you would," cried the girl. + +"And now for Keith! He's over to the McGuires'. I'll get him!" +exclaimed the man boyishly. + +But Miss Dorothy was instantly on her feet. + +"No, no, please," she begged a little breathlessly. "I'd rather you +didn't--now. I--I think we'd better get it a little farther along +before we tell him. There's a whole lot to do, you know--getting the +room and the materials and the superintendent, and all that; and there +isn't a thing he can do--yet." + +"All right. Very good. Perhaps that would be better," nodded the man. +"But, let me tell you, I already have some workers for your project." + +"You mean Jack Green, here in town?" + +"No. Oh, we'd want him, of course; but it's some others--a couple of +boys from Hillsboro. I had a letter yesterday from the father of one +of the boys, asking what to do with his son. He thought because of--of +Keith, that I could help him. It was a pitiful letter. The man was +heart-broken and utterly at sea. His boy--only nineteen--had come home +blind, and well-nigh crazed with the tragedy of it. And the father +didn't know which way to turn. That's why he had appealed to me. You +see, on account of Keith--" + +"Yes, I understand," said the girl gently, as the man left his +sentence unfinished. + +"I've had others, too--several of them--in the last few weeks. If +you'll wait I'll get the letters." He was already halfway to the door. +"It may take a minute or two to look them up; but--they'll be worth +it, I think." + +"Of course they will," she cried eagerly. "They'll be just exactly +what we want, and I'm not in a bit of a hurry," she finished, dropping +back in her chair as the door closed behind him. + +Alone, she looked about the room, her eyes wistful, brimming with +unshed tears. Over by the window was Keith's chair, before it the +table, with a half-completed picture puzzle spread upon it. Near the +table was a set of shelves containing other picture puzzles, games, +and books--all, as the girl well knew, especially designed and +constructed for eyes that could not see. + +She had risen to her feet and half started to cross the room toward +the table when the door to the side hall opened and Keith Burton +entered the room. + +With a half-stifled gasp the girl stepped back to her chair. The blind +boy stopped instantly, his face turned toward her. + +"Is that--you, Susan?" + +The girl wet her lips, but no words came. + +"Who's there, please?" He spoke sharply this time. As everybody knew-- +who knew Keith--the one thing that angered him more than anything else +was the attempted deception as to one's presence in the room. + +Miss Dorothy gave a confused little laugh, and put her hand to her +throat. + +"Why, Keith, it's only I! Don't look so--" + +"You?" For one brief moment his face lighted up as with a hidden +flame; then instantly it changed. It became like the gray of ashes +after the flame is spent. "Why didn't you speak, then?" he questioned. +"It did no good to keep quiet. You mustn't forget that I have ears--if +I haven't eyes." + +"Nonsense, Keith!" She laughed again confusedly, though her own face +had paled a little. "I did speak as soon as I caught my breath;-- +popping in on a body like that!" + +"But I didn't know--you were here," stammered the young fellow +uncertainly. "Nobody called me. I beg your pardon if--" He came to a +helpless pause. + +"Not a bit of it! You needn't. It wasn't necessary at all." The girl +tossed off the words with a lightness so forced that it was almost +flippancy. "You see, I didn't come to see you at all. It was your +father." + +"My father!" + +"Certainly." + +"But--but does he know?" + +The girl laughed merrily--too merrily for sincerity. + +"Know? Indeed he does. We've just been having a lovely talk. He's gone +upstairs for some letters. He's coming right back--right back." + +"Oh-h!" Was it an indefinable something in her voice, or was it the +repetition of the last two words? Whatever it was that caused it, +Keith turned away with a jerk, walked with the swift sureness of long +familiarity straight to the set of shelves and took down a book. "Then +I'll not disturb you any further--as long as you're not needing me," +he said tersely. "I only came for this." And with barely a touch of +his cane to the floor and door-casing, he strode from the room. + +The pity of it--that he could not have seen Dorothy Parkman's eyes +looking after him! + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI + +WHAT SUSAN DID NOT SEE + + +There was apparently no limit to Daniel Burton's enthusiastic +cooperation with Dorothy Parkman on the matter of establishing a +workroom for the blind. He set to work with her at once. The very next +morning after her initial visit, he went with her to Mazie Sanborn's +father, and together they formulated the first necessary plans. + +Thomas Sanborn was generous, and cordially enthusiastic, though his +words and manner carried the crisp terseness of the busy man whose +time is money. At the end of five minutes he summoned one David Patch +to the office, and introduced him to Miss Dorothy and Daniel Burton as +one of his most expert engineers. + +"And now I'll turn the whole thing over to you," he declared briskly, +with his finger already on the button that would summon his +stenographer for dictation. "Just step into that room there and stay +as long as you like. Whatever Patch says I'll back up. You'll find him +thoroughly capable and trustworthy. And now good luck to you," he +finished, throwing wide the door of the adjoining room. + +The next moment Miss Dorothy and Daniel Burton found themselves alone +with the keen-eyed, alert little man who had been introduced as David +Patch. And David Patch did, indeed, appear to be very capable. He +evidently understood his business, and he gave interested attention to +Miss Dorothy's story of what she had seen, and of what she wished now +to try to do. He took them then for a tour of the great shop, +especially to the department where the busy fingers were winding with +tape the thousands of wire coils. + +Miss Dorothy's eyes sparkled with excitement, and she fairly clapped +her hands in her delight, while Daniel Burton said that even he could +see the possibilities of that kind of work for their purpose. + +At the end of a long hour of talking and planning, Miss Dorothy and +Daniel Burton started for home. But even then Daniel Burton had yet +more to say, for at his gate, which was on Miss Dorothy's way home, he +begged her to come in for a moment. + +"I had another letter to-day about a blind soldier--this time from +Baltimore. I want to show it to you. You see, so many write to me, on +account of my own boy. You will come in, just a minute?" + +"Why, yes, of course I--will." The pause, and the half-stifled word +that finished the sentence came as the tall figure of Keith Burton +turned the corner of the piazza and walked toward the steps. + +"Hullo! Dad?" Keith's voice was questioning. + +"Yes; and--" + +"And Dorothy Parkman," broke in the girl with a haste so precipitate +as to make her almost choke. + +"Miss Parkman?" Once again, for a moment, Keith's face lighted as with +a flame. "Come up. Come around on the south side," he cried eagerly. +"I've been sunning myself there. You'd think it was May instead of +March." + +"No, she can't go and sun herself with you," interposed Daniel Burton +with mock severity. "She's coming with me into the house. I want to +show her something." + +"Well, I--I like that," retorted the youth. He spoke jauntily, and +gave a short little laugh. But the light had died from his face and a +slow red had crept to his forehead. + +"Well, she can't. She's coming with me," reiterated the man. "Now run +back to your sun bath. If you're good maybe we'll be out pretty soon," +he laughed back at his son, as he opened the house door for his guest. +"That's right--you didn't want him to know, yet, did you?" he added, +looking a bit anxiously into the girl's somewhat flushed face as he +closed the hall door. + +"Quite right. No, I don't want him to know yet. There's so much to be +done to get started, and he'd want to help. And he couldn't help about +that part; and't would only fret him and make him unhappy." + +"My idea exactly," nodded the man. "When we get the room, and the +goods there, we'll want to tell him then." + +"Of course, you'll tell him then," cried the girl. + +"Yes, indeed, of course we will!" exclaimed the man, very evidently +not noticing the change in the pronoun. "Now, if you'll wait a minute +I'll get that letter, then we'll go out to Keith on the piazza." + +It was a short letter, and one quickly read; and very soon they were +out on the piazza again. But Miss Dorothy said "No, no!" very hastily +when he urged her to go around on the other side; and she added, "I +really must go home now," as she hurried down the steps. Daniel Burton +went then around the corner of the piazza to explain her absence to +his son Keith. But he need not have hurried. His son Keith was not +there. + +For all the good progress that was made on that first day, things +seemed to move a bit slowly after that. To begin with, the matter of +selecting a suitable room gave no little difficulty. The right room in +the right location seemed not to be had; and Daniel Burton even +suggested that they use some room in his own house. But after a little +thought he gave up this idea as being neither practical nor desirable. + +Meanwhile he was in daily communication with Dorothy Parkman, and the +two spent hours together, thrashing out the different problems one by +one as they arose, sometimes at her home, more frequently at his; for +"home" to Dorothy in Hinsdale meant the Sanborn house, where Mazie was +always in evidence--and Daniel Burton did not care for Mazie. +Especially he did not care for her advice and assistance on the +problems that were puzzling him now. + +To be sure, at his own home there was Keith; but he contrived to avoid +Keith on most occasions. Besides, Keith himself seemed quite inclined +to keep out of the way (particularly if he heard the voice of Dorothy +Parkman), which did not disturb Daniel Burton in the least, under the +circumstances. Until they got ready to tell Keith, he was rather glad +that he did keep so conveniently out of the way. And as Dorothy seemed +always glad to avoid seeing Keith or talking to him, there was really +very little trouble on that score; and they could have their +consultations in peace and quietness. + +And there were so many of them--those consultations! When at last the +room was found, there were the furnishings to select, and the final +plans to be made for the real work to be done. David Patch proved +himself to be invaluable then. As if by magic a long table appeared, +and the coils and the tape, and all the various paraphernalia of a +properly equipped winding-room marched smoothly into place. Meanwhile +three soldiers and one civilian stood ready and eager to be taught, +needing only the word of command to begin. + +"And now we'll tell Keith," said Daniel Burton. + +"Yes; now you must tell Keith," said Miss Dorothy. + +"To-morrow at nine." + +"To-morrow at nine," bowed Miss Dorothy. + +"I'll bring him down and we'll show him." + +"And I do so hope he'll like it." + +"Of course, he'll like it!" cried Daniel Burton. "You wait and see." + +But she did not see. She was not there to see. + +Promptly at nine o'clock Daniel Burton appeared at the winding-room +with Keith. But Dorothy Parkman was nowhere in sight. He waited ten, +fifteen minutes; then he told Keith the story of the room, and of what +they hoped to do there, fuming meanwhile within himself because he had +to tell it alone. + +But it was not lack of interest that kept Miss Dorothy away. It could +not have been; for that very afternoon she sought Daniel Burton out +and asked eagerly what his son had said, and how he had taken it. And +her eyes shone and her breath quickened at the story Daniel Burton +told; and so eager was she to know every little word that had fallen +from Keith's lips that she kept Daniel Burton repeating over and over +each minute detail. + +Yet the next day when Keith and four other blind youths began work in +earnest, she never once went near Keith's chair, though she went often +to the others, dropping here and there a word of encouragement or a +touch of aiding fingers. When night came, however, and she found an +opportunity for a few words alone with Daniel Burton, she told him +that, in her opinion, Keith had done the best work of the five, and +that it was perfectly marvelous the way he was taking hold. And again +her eyes sparkled and her breath quickened; and she spent the entire +ten minutes talking about Keith to his father. Yet the next day, when +the work began again, she still went to the back of every chair but +Keith's. + +Things happened very rapidly after that. It was not a week before the +first long table in the big room was filled with eager workers, and +the second one had to be added to take care of the newcomers. + +The project was already the talk of the town, and not the least +excited and interested of the observers was John McGuire's mother. +When the news came of the second table's being added to the equipment +of the place, she hurried over to Susan's kitchen without delay-- +though with the latest poem of her son's as the ostensible excuse. + +"It's 'The Stumbling-Block,'" she announced. "He just got it done +yesterday, an' I copied it for you. I think it's the best yet," she +beamed, handing over a folded paper. "It's kind of long, so don't stop +to read it now. Say, is it true? Have they had to put in another table +at that blind windin'-room?" + +"They have." + +"Well, if that ain't the greatest! I think it's just grand. They took +my John down there to see the place yesterday. Do you know? That boy +is a different bein' since his book an' his writin'. An' he's learnin' +to do such a lot of things for himself, an' he's so happy in it! An' +he doesn't mind seein' anybody now. An' it's all owin' to your +wonderful Keith an' his father. I wouldn't ever have believed it of +them." + +Susan's chin came up a bit. + +"I would. I KNEW. An' I always told you that Daniel Burton was a +superlative man in every way, an' his son's jest like him. Only you +wouldn't believe me." + +"Nobody'd believe you," maintained Mrs. McGuire spiritedly. "Nobody'd +believe such a thing could be as my John bein' changed like that--an' +all those others down to the windin'-room, too. They say it's +perfectly marvelous what Keith an' his father are doin' with those men +an' boys. Aren't they awful happy over it--Keith an' his father, I +mean?" + +"Daniel Burton is. Why, he's like a different man, Mis' McGuire. You'd +know that, jest to see him walk, an' hear him speak. An' I don't hear +nothin' more about his longin' to get over there. I guess he thinks +he's got work enough to do right here. An' he hardly ever touches his +war maps these days." + +"But ain't Keith happy, too?" + +"Y-yes, an' no," hesitated Susan, her face clouding a little. "Oh, +he's gone into it heart an' soul; an' while he's workin' on somethin' +he's all right. But when it's all quiet, an' he's settin' alone, I +don't like the look on his face. But I know he's glad to be helpin' +down there; an' I know it's helpin' him, too." + +"It's helpin' everybody--not forgettin' Miss Dorothy Parkman," added +Mrs. McGuire, with a smile and a shrug, as she rose to go. "But, then, +of course, we all know what she's after." + +"After! What do you mean?" + +"Susan Betts!" With a jerk Mrs. McGuire faced about. "It ain't +possible, with eyes in your head, that you hain't seen!" + +"Seen what?" + +"Well, my lan'! With that girl throwin' herself at Daniel Burton's +head for the last six weeks, an' you calmly set there an' ask 'seen +what?'!" + +"Daniel Burton--Dorothy Parkman!" There was no mistaking Susan's +dumfounded amazement. + +"Yes, Daniel Burton an' Dorothy Parkman. Oh, I used to think it was +Keith; but when the money came to old Daniel I guess she thought he +wasn't so old, after all. Besides, Keith, with his handicap--you +couldn't blame the girl, after all, I s'pose." + +"Daniel Burton an' Dorothy Parkman!" repeated Susan, this time with +the faintness of stupefaction. + +"Why, Susan, you must've seen it--her runnin' in here every day, +walkin' home with him, an' talk, talk, talkin' to him every chance she +gets!" + +"But, they--they've been makin' plans for--for the work," murmured +Susan. + +"Work! Well, I guess it no need to've taken quite so many +consultations for just the work. Besides, she never thought of such a +scheme as this before the money came, did she? Not much she did! Oh, +come, Susan, wake up! She'll be walkin' off with him right under your +nose if you don't look out," finished Mrs. McGuire with a sly laugh, +as she took her departure. + +Left alone, Susan sat for some time absorbed in thought, a deep frown +on her face; then with a sigh and a shrug, as if throwing off an +incomprehensible burden, she opened the paper Mrs. McGuire had left +with her. + +Once, twice, three times she read the verses; then with a low chuckle +she folded up the paper, tucked it into her apron pocket, and rose to +her feet. A minute later she had attacked the pile of dishes in the +sink, and was singing lustily: + +"I've taken my worries, an' taken my woes, + I have, I have, + An' shut 'em up where nobody knows, + I have, I have. + I chucked 'em down, that's what I did, + An' now I'm sittin' upon the lid, + An' we'll all feel gay when Johnny comes marchin' home. + I'm sittin' upon the lid, I am, + Hurrah! Hurrah! + I'm tryin' to be a little lamb, + Hurrah! Hurrah! + But I'm feelin' more like a great big slam + Than a nice little peaceful woolly lamb, + But we'll all feel gay when Johnny comes marchin' home." + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII + +THE KEY + + +There was no work at the winding-room Saturday afternoons, and it was +on Saturday afternoon that Susan found Keith sitting idle-handed in +his chair by the window in the living-room. + +As was her custom she spoke the moment she entered the room--but not +before she had noted the listless attitude and wistful face of the +youth over by the window. + +"Keith, I've been thinkin'." + +"Bad practice, Susan--sometimes," he laughed whimsically. + +"Not this time." + +"Poetry?" + +She shook her head. + +"No. I ain't poetizin' so much these days, though I did write one +yesterday--about the ways of the world. I'm goin' to read it to you, +too, by an' by. But that's jest a common poem about common, every-day +folks. An' this thing I was thinkin' about was--was diff'rent." + +"And so you couldn't put this into a poem--eh?" + +Susan shook her head again and sighed. + +"No. An' it's been that way lots o' times lately, 'specially since I +seen John McGuire's poems--so fine an' bumtious! Oh, I have the +perspiration to write, lots o' times, an' I yield up to it an' write. +But somehow, when it's done, I hain't said a mite what I want to, an' +I hain't said it the way I want to, either. I think maybe havin' so +many of 'em disinclined by them editors has made me kinder fearsome." + +"I'm afraid it has, Susan," he smiled. + +"Now, this afternoon, what I was thinkin' about--once I'd've made a +poem of that easy; but to-day I didn't even try. I KNEW I couldn't do +it. An', say, Keith, it was you I was thinkin' about." + +"Heavens, Susan! A poem out of me? No wonder your muse balked! I'm +afraid you'd find even--er--perspiration wouldn't make a poem out of +me." + +"Keith, do you remember?" Susan was still earnest and preoccupied. "I +told you once that it didn't make no diff'rence if God had closed the +door of your eyes. He'd open up another room to you sometime, an' give +you the key to unlock the door. An' he has. An' now you've got it-- +that key." + +"I've got it--the key!" + +"Yes. It's that work down there--helpin' them blind men an' boys to +get hold of their souls again. Oh, Keith, don't you see? An' it's such +a big, wide room that God has given you, an' it's all yours. There +ain't no one that can help them poor blind soldiers like you can. An' +you couldn't 'a' done it if the door of your eyes hadn't been shut +first. That was what give you the key to this big, beautiful room of +helpin' our boys what's come back to us, blinded, an' half-crazed with +despair an' discouragement. Oh, if I only could make you see it the +way I do! But I can't say it--the right way. There's such a big, +beautiful idea there, if only I could make you see it. That's why I +wanted to write the poem." + +"I can see it, Susan--without the poem." Keith was not smiling now. +His face was turned away and his voice had grown a bit unsteady. "And +I'm glad you showed it to me. It's going to help me a whole lot if--if +I'll just keep remembering that key, I think." + +Susan threw a quick look into Keith's averted face, then promptly she +reached for the folded paper in her apron pocket. + +There were times when Susan was wise beyond her station as to when the +subject should be changed. + +"An' now I'm goin' to read you the poem I did write," she announced +briskly--"about every-day folks--diff'rent kinds of folks. Six of 'em. +It shows that there ain't any one anywhere that's really satisfied +with their lot, when you come right down to it, whether they've got +eyes or not." + +And she began to read: + + THE WAY OF THE WORLD + + A beggar girl on the curbstone sat, + All ragged an' hungry-eyed. + Across the street came Peggy McGee; + The beggar girl saw an' sighed. + + "I wish'd I was rich--as rich as she, + For she has got things to eat; + An' clo's an' shoes, an' a place to live, + An' she don't beg in the street." + + When Peggy McGee the corner turned, + SHE climbed to her garret high + From there she gazed through curtainless panes + At hangin's of lace near by. + + "Ah, me!" sighed Peggy. "If I had those + An' rugs like hers on the floor, + It seems to me that I'd never ask + For nothin' at all no more." + + . . . . . + + From out those curtains that selfsame day, + Looked a face all sour an' thin. + "I hate to live on this horrid street, + In the children's yellin' din! + + "An' where's the good of my nice new things, + When nobody'll see or know? + I really think that I ought to be + A-livin' in Rich Man's Row." + + A carriage came from "Rich Man's Row," + An' rumbled by to the park. + A lady sat on the carriage seat; + "Oh, dear," said she, "what an ark! + + "If only this coach could show some style, + My clothes, so shabby, would pass. + Now there's an auto quite my kind-- + But 'tisn't my own--alas!" + + The "auto" carried a millionaire, + Whose brow was knotted an' stern. + "A million is nowhere, now," thought he, + "That's somethin' we all must learn. + + "It's millions MANY one has to have, + To be in the swim at all. + This tryin' to live when one is so poor + Is really all folderol!" + + . . . . . + + A man of millions was just behind; + The beggar was passin' by. + Business at beggin' was good that day, + An' the girl was eatin' pie. + + The rich man looked, an' he groaned aloud, + An' swore with his gouty pain. + "I'd give my millions, an' more beside, + Could I eat like that again!" + +"Now, ain't that jest like folks?" Susan demanded, as she finished the +last verse. + +Keith laughed. + +"I suspect it is, Susan. And--and, by the way, I shouldn't wonder if +this were quite the right time to show that I'm no different from +other folks. You see, I, too,--er--am going to make a change--in +living." + +"A change in living! What do you mean?" + +"Oh, not now--not quite yet. But you see I'VE been doing some +thinking, too. I've been thinking that if father--that is, WHEN father +and Miss Parkman are married--that--" + +But Susan interrupted with a groan. + +"My sakes, Keith, have you seen it, too?" + +Keith laughed embarrassedly. + +"To be sure I have! You don't have to have eyes to see that, do you, +Susan?" + +"Oh, good lan', I don't know," frowned Susan irritably. "I didn't +s'pose---" + +She did not finish her sentence, and after a moment's silence Keith +began again to speak. + +"I've been talking a little to David Patch--the superintendent, you +know. We're going to take the whole house where we are, for our work, +pretty quick, and when we do, Patch and his wife will come there to +live upstairs; and they'll take me to board. I asked them. Then I'll +be right there handy all the time, you see, which will be a fine +arrangement all around." + +"A fine arrangement, indeed--with you 'way off down there, an' livin' +with David Patch!" + +"But, Susan," argued Keith, a bit wearily, "I couldn't be living here, +you know." + +"I should like to know why not." + +"Because I--couldn't." He had grown very white now. "Besides, I--I +think they would be happier without me here; and I know--I should be." +His voice was low and almost indistinct, but Susan heard--and +understood. "The very fact that once I--I thought--that I was foolish +enough to think--But, of course, as soon as I remembered my blindness +--And to tie a beautiful young girl down to--" He stopped short and +pulled himself up. "Susan, are you still there?" + +"I'm right here, Keith." Susan spoke constrainedly. + +He gave an embarrassed laugh. A painful red had suffused his face. + +"I'm afraid I got to talking--and forgetting that I wasn't--alone," he +stumbled on hurriedly. "I--I meant to go on to say that I hoped they'd +be very happy. Dad deserves it; and--and if they'd only hurry up and +get it over with, it--it would be easier--for me. Not that it matters, +of course. Dad has had an awful lot to put up with me already, as it +is, you know--the trouble, the care, and the disappointment. You see, +I--I was going to make up to him for all he had lost. I was going to +be Jerry and Ned and myself, all in a bunch. And now to turn out to be +nothing--and worse than nothing---" + +"Keith Burton, you stop!" It was the old imperious Susan back again. +"You stop right where you be. An' don't you never let me hear you say +another word about your bein' a disappointment. Jerry an' Ned, indeed! +I wonder if you think a dozen Jerrys an' Neds could do what you've +done! An' no matter what they done, they couldn't have done a bigger, +splendider thing than you've done in triumphating over your blindness +the way you've done, nor one that would make your father prouder of +you! An' let me tell you another thing, Keith Burton. No matter what +you done--no matter how many big pictures you painted, or big books +you wrote, or how much money you made for your dad; there ain't +anything you could've done that would do him so much solid good as +what you have done." + +"Why, Susan, are you wild? I haven't done a thing, not a thing for +dad." + +"Yes, you have. You've done the biggest thing of all by NEEDIN' him." + +"Needing him!" + +"Yes. Keith Burton, look at your father now. Look at the splendid work +he's doin'. You know as well as I do that he used to be a thoroughly +insufficient, uncapacious man (though I wouldn't let anybody else say +it!), putterin' over a mess of pictures that wouldn't sell for a +nickel. An' that he used to run from anything an' everything that was +unpropitious an' disagreeable, like he was bein' chased. Well, then +you was took blind. An' what happened? + +"You know what happened. He came right up an' toed the mark like a man +an' a gentleman. An' he's toed it ever since. An' I can tell you that +the pictures he's paintin' now with his tongue for them poor blind +boys to see is bigger an' better than any pictures he could have +painted with--with his pigmy paints if he worked on 'em for a thousand +years. An' it's YOU that's done it for him, jest by needin' him. So +there!" + +And before Keith could so much as open his lips, Susan was gone, +slamming the door behind her. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII + +AND ALL ON ACCOUNT OF SUSAN + + +Not one wink did Susan Betts sleep that night. To Susan her world was +tumbling about her ears in one dizzy whirl of destruction. + +Daniel Burton and Dorothy Parkman married and living there, and her +beloved blind boy banished to a home with one David Patch? +Unthinkable! And yet--- + +Well, if it had got to be, it had got to be, she supposed--the +marriage. But they might at least be decent about it. As for keeping +that poor blind boy harrowed up all the time and prolonging the agony +--well, at least she could do something about THAT, thank goodness! And +she would, too. + +When there was anything that Susan could do--particularly in the line +of righting a wrong--she lost no time in doing it. Within two days, +therefore, she made her opportunity, and grasped it. A little +peremptorily she informed Miss Dorothy Parkman that she would like to +speak to her, please, in the kitchen. Then, tall, and cold, and very +stern, she faced her. + +"Of course, I understand, Miss Dorothy, I'm bustlin' in where I hain't +no business to. An' I hain't no excuse to offer except my boy, Keith. +It's for him I'm askin' you to do it." + +"To do--what, Susan?" She had changed color slightly, as she asked the +question. + +"Not let it be seen so plain--the love-makin'." + +"Seen! Love-making!" gasped the girl. + +"Well, the talkin' to him, then, an' whisperin', an' consultin's, an' +runnin' here every day, an'---" + +"I beg your pardon, Susan," interrupted the girl incisively. She had +grown very white. "I am tempted to make no sort of reply to such an +absurd accusation; but I'm going to say, however, that you must be +laboring under some mistake. I do not come here to see Mr. Keith +Burton, and I've scarcely exchanged a dozen words with him for +months." + +"I'm talkin' about Mr. Daniel, not Keith, an'---" + +"Mr. DANIEL Burton!" + +"Of course! Who else?" Susan was nettled now, and showed it. "I don't +s'pose you'll deny runnin' here to see him, an' talkin' to him, an'--- +" + +"No, no, wait!--wait! Don't say any more, PLEASE!" The girl was half +laughing, half crying, and her face was going from white to red and +back to white again. "Am I to understand that I am actually being +accused of--of running after Mr. Daniel Burton?--of--of love-making +toward HIM?" she choked incoherently. + +"Why, y-yes; that is--er---" + +"Oh, this is too much, too much! First Keith, and now--" She broke off +hysterically. "To think that--Oh, Susan, how could you, how could +you!" And this time she dropped into a chair and covered her face with +her hands. But she was laughing. Very plainly she was laughing. + +Susan frowned, stared, and frowned again. + +"Then you ain't in love with--" Suddenly her face cleared, and broke +into a broad smile. "Well, my lan', if that ain't the best joke ever! +Of course, you ain't in love with him! I don't believe I ever more 'n +half believed it, anyway. Now it'll be dead easy, an' all right, too." + +"But--but what does it all mean?" stammered the girl. + +"Why, it's jest that--that everybody thought you was after him, an't +would be a match--you bein' together so much. But even then I wouldn't +have said a thing if it hadn't been for Keith." + +"Keith!" + +"Yes--poor boy, he--an' it WAS hard for him, seein' you two together +like this, an' thinkin' you cared for each other. An' he'd got his +plans all made how when you was married he'd go an' live with David +Patch." + +"David Patch! But--why?" + +"Why, don't you see? 'T wouldn't be very easy to see you married to +another man, would it?--an' lovin' you all the time hisself, an'--" + +"LOVING ME!" + +"That's what I said." Susan's lips came sharply together and her keen +eyes swept the girl's face. + +"But, I--I think you must be mistaken--again," faltered the girl, +growing rosy. + +"I ain't. I've always suspicioned it, an' now I know it." + +"But, he--he's acted as if he didn't care for me at all--as if he +hated me." + +"That's because he cared so much." + +"Nonsense, Susan!" + +"'T ain't nonsense. It's sense. As I told you, I've always suspicioned +it, an' last Saturday, when I heard him talk, I knew. He as good as +owned it up, anyhow." + +"But why didn't he--he tell me?" stammered the girl, growing still +more rosy. + +"Because he was blind." + +"As if I'd minded---" She stopped abruptly and turned away her face. + +Susan drew a resolute breath and squared her shoulders. + +"Then why don't you do somethin'?" she demanded. + +"Do something?" + +"Yes, to--to show him that you don't mind." + +"Oh, Susan, I--I couldn't do--that." + +"All right. Settle back, then, an' do nothin'; an' he'll settle back +an' do nothin', an' there'll be a pretty pair of you, eatin' your +hearts out with love for each other, an' passin' each other by with +converted faces an' highbrow chins; an' all because you're afraid of +offendin' Mis' Grundy, who don't care no more about you than two +sticks. But I s'pose you'd both rather be miserable than brace up an' +defy the properties an' live long an' be happy ever after." + +"But if I could be sure he--cared," spoke the girl, in a faint little +voice. + +"You would have been, if you'd seen him Saturday, as I did." + +"And if---" + +"If--if--if!" interrupted Susan impatiently. "An' there that poor +blind boy sets an' thinks an' thinks an' thinks, an' longs for some +one that loves him to smooth his pillow an' rumple his hair, an'---" + +"Susan, I'm going to do it. I'M GOING TO DO IT!" vowed the girl, +springing to her feet, her eyes like stars, her cheeks like twin +roses. + +"Do what?" demanded Susan. + +"I don't know. But, I'm going to do SOMETHING. Anyhow, whatever I do I +know I'm going to--to defy the 'properties,'" she babbled deliriously, +as she hurried from the room, looking very much as if she were trying +to hide from herself. + +Four days later, Keith, in his favorite chair, sat on the south +piazza. It was an April day, but it was like June, and the window +behind him was wide open into the living-room. He did not hear Dorothy +Parkman's light step up the walk. He did not know that she had paused +at sight of him sitting there, and had put her hand to her throat, and +then that she had almost run, light-footed, into the house, again very +much as if she were trying to run away from herself. But he did hear +her voice two minutes later, speaking just inside the window. + +At the first sentence he tried to rise, then with a despairing gesture +as if realizing that flight would be worse than to remain where he +was, he sat back in his chair. And this is what he heard Dorothy +Parkman say: + +"No, no, Mr. Burton, please--I--I can't marry you. You'll have to +understand. No--don't speak, don't say anything, please. There's +nothing you could say that--that would make a bit of difference. It's +just that I--I don't love you and I do--love somebody else--Keith, +your son--yes, you have guessed it. Oh, yes, I know we don't seem to +be much to each other, now. But--but whether we ever are, or not, +there can't ever be--any one else. And I think--he cares. It's just +that--that his pride won't let him speak. As if his dear eyes didn't +make me love him-- + +"But I mustn't say all this--to you. It's just that--that I wanted you +to surely--understand. And--and I must go, now. I--must--go!" + +And she went. She went hurriedly, a little noisily. She shut one door, +and another; then, out on the piazza, she came face to face with Keith +Burton. + +"Dorothy, oh, Dorothy--I heard!" + +And then it was well, indeed, that the Japanese screen on the front +piazza was down, for Keith stood with his arms outstretched, and +Dorothy, with an ineffably contented little indrawn breath, walked +straight into them. And with that light on his face, she would have +walked into them had he been standing in the middle of the sidewalk +outside. + +[Illustration: IT WAS WELL THAT THE JAPANESE SCREEN ON THE FRONT +PIAZZA WAS DOWN] + +To Dorothy at that moment nobody in all the world counted for a +feather's weight except the man who was holding her close, with his +lips to hers. + +Later, a little later, when they sat side by side on the piazza +settee, and when coherence and logic had become attributes to their +conversation, Keith sighed, with a little catch in his voice: + +"The only thing I regret about this--all this--the only thing that +makes me feel cheap and mean, is that I've won where dad lost out. +Poor old dad!" + +There was the briefest of pauses, then a small, subdued voice said: + +"I--I suspect, Keith, confession is good for the soul." + +"Well?" he demanded in evident mystification. + +"Anyhow, I--I'll have to do it. Your father wasn't there at all." + +"But I heard you speaking to him, my dear." + +She shook her head, and stole a look into his face, then caught her +breath with a little choking sob of heartache because he could not see +the love she knew was in her eyes. But the heartache only nerved her +to say the words that almost refused to come. "He--he wasn't there," +she repeated, fencing for time. + +"But who was there? I heard you call him by name, 'Mr. Burton,' +clearly, distinctly. I know I did." + +"But--but he wasn't there. Nobody was there. I--I was just talking to +myself." + +"You mean--practicing what you were going to say?" questioned Keith +doubtfully. "And that--that he doesn't know yet that you are going to +refuse him?" + +"N-no--er--well, yes. That is, I mean, it's true. He--he doesn't know +I am going to refuse him." There was a hint of smothered laughter in +the girl's voice. + +"Dorothy!" The arm about her waist perceptibly loosened and almost +fell away. "Why, I don't feel now that--that you half belong to me, +yet. And--and think of poor dad!" + +The girl caught her breath and stole another look into his face. + +"But, Keith, you--you don't understand. He--he hasn't proposed to me +yet. That is, I mean," she amended hastily, "he--he isn't going to +propose to me--ever." + +"But he was. He--cares. And now he'll have to know about--us." + +"But he wasn't--he doesn't. You don't understand, Keith. He--he never +thought of--of proposing to me. I know he didn't." + +"Then why--what--Dorothy, what do you mean by all this?" + +"Why, it's just that--that is--I--oh, Keith, Keith, why will you make +me tell you?" she cried between hysterical little laughs and sobs. +"And yet--I'd have to tell you, of course. I--I knew you were there on +the porch, and--and I knew you'd hear--what I said. And so, to make +you understand--oh, Keith, it was awful, but I--I pretended that---" + +"You--darling!" breathed an impassioned voice in her ear. "Oh, how I +love you, love you--for that!" + +"Oh, but, Keith, it really was awful of me," she cried, blushing and +laughing, as she emerged from his embrace. "Susan told me to defy the +'properties' and--and I did it." + +"Susan!" + +She nodded. + +"That's how I knew--for sure--that you cared." + +"And so I owe it all--even my--er--proposal of marriage, to Susan," he +bantered mischievously. + +"Keith, I did NOT--er--it was not a proposal of marriage." + +"No? But you're going to marry me, aren't you?" + +Her chin came up. + +"I--I shall wait till I'm asked," she retorted with dignity. + +"Hm-m; well, I reckon it's safe to say you'll be asked. And so I owe +it all to Susan. Well, it isn't the first good thing I've owed to her +--bless her heart! And she's equal to 'most anything. But I'll wager, +in this case, that even Susan had some stunt to perform. How did she +do it?" + +"She told me that you--you thought your father and I cared for each +other, and that--that you cared for me; but that you were very brave +and were going to go away, and--leave us to our happiness. Then, when +she found there was nothing to the other part of it, and that I--I +cared for you, she--well, I don't know how she did it, but she said-- +well, I did it. That's all." + +Keith chuckled. + +"Exactly! You couldn't have described it better. We've always done +what Susan wanted us to, and we never could tell why. We--we just did +it. That's all. And, oh, I'm so glad you did this, little girl, so +glad!" + +"Yes, but---" She drew away from him a little, and her voice became +severely accusing. "Keith Burton, you--you should have done it +yourself, and you know it." + +He shook his head. + +"I couldn't." A swift shadow fell like a cloud over his countenance. +"Darling, even now--Dorothy, do you fully realize what you are doing? +All your life to be tied---" + +"Hush!" Her finger was on his lips only to be kissed till she took it +away. "I won't let you talk like that a minute--not a single minute! +But, Keith, there is something I want you to say." Her voice was half +pleading, half whimsical. Her eyes, through her tears, were studying +his face, turned partly away from her. "Confession is good for the +soul." + +"Well? Anything more?" He smiled faintly. + +"Yes; only this time it's you. YOU'VE got to do it." + +"I?" + +"Yes." Her voice rang with firm decision. "Keith, I want to know why-- +why all this time you've acted so--so that I had to find out through +Susan that you--cared. And I want to know--when you stopped hating me. +And---" + +"Dorothy--I never, never hated you!" cut in the man passionately. + +"But you acted as if you did. Why, you--you wouldn't let me come near +you, and you were so--angry with me." + +"Yes, I--know." The man fell back in his chair and was silent. + +There was a long minute of waiting. + +"Keith." + +"Yes, dear." + +"I confessed mine, and yours can't be any harder than--mine was." + +Still he hesitated; then, with a long breath he began to speak. + +"Dorothy, it--it's just that I've had so much to fight. And--it hasn't +been easy. But, listen, dear. I think I've loved you from away back in +the days when you wore your hair in two thick pigtails down your back. +You know I was only fourteen when--when the shadows began to come. One +day, away back then, I saw you shudder once at--blindness. We were +talking about old Joe Harrington. And I never forgot it." + +"But it was only because I pitied him." + +"Yes; but I thought then that it was more aversion. You said you +couldn't bear to look at them. And you see I feared, even then, that I +was going to be like old Joe some time." + +"Oh, Keith!" + +"Well, it came. I was like old Joe--blind. And I knew that I was the +object of curiosity and pity, and, I believed, aversion, wherever I +went. And, oh, I so hated it! I didn't want to be stared at, and +pointed out, and pitied. I didn't want to be different. And above all +I didn't want to know that you were turning away from me in aversion +and disgust." + +"Oh, Keith, Keith, as if I ever could!" faltered the girl. + +"I thought you could--and would. I used to picture you all in the +dark, as I used to see you with your bright eyes and pretty hair, and +I could see the look on your face as you turned away shuddering. +That's when I determined at all costs to keep out of your sight--until +I should be well again. I was going to be well, of course, then, you +know. Well, in time I went West, and on the way I met--Miss Stewart." + +"Yes." Dorothy's voice was not quite steady. + +"I liked Miss Stewart. She was wonderfully good to me. At first--at +the very first--she gave me quite a start. Her voice sounded so much +like--Dorothy Parkman's. But very soon I forgot that, and just gave +myself up to the enjoyment of her companionship. I wasn't afraid with +her--that her eyes were turned away in aversion and disgust. Some way, +I just knew that she wasn't like--Dorothy Parkman. You see, I hadn't +forgotten Dorothy. Some day I was going back to her--seeing. + +"Well, you know what happened--the operations, the specialists, the +years of waiting, the trip to London, then home, hopelessly blind. It +was not easy then, Dorothy, but--I tried to be a man. Most of all I +felt for--dad. He'd had so many hopes--But, never mind; and, anyhow, +what Susan said the other day helped--But this has nothing to do with +you, dear. To go on: I gave you up then definitely. I know that all +the while I'd been having you back in my mind, young as I was--that +some day I was going to be big and strong and rich and have my eyes; +and that then I was going to ask you to marry me. But when I got home, +hopelessly blind, that ended it. I didn't believe you would have me, +anyway; but even if you would, I wasn't going to give you the chance +of always having to turn away in aversion and disgust from the sight +of your husband." + +"Oh, Keith, how could you!" + +"I couldn't. But you see how I felt. Then, one day I heard Miss +Stewart's voice in the hall, and, oh, how good it sounded to me! I +think I must have caught her hand very much as the drowning man grasps +at the straw. SHE would never turn away from me! With her I felt safe, +happy, and at peace. I don't think I exactly understood my state of +mind myself. I didn't think I was in love with her, yet with her I was +happy, and I was never afraid. + +"But I didn't have a chance long to question. Almost at once came the +day when Mazie Sanborn ran up the steps and spoke--to you. And I knew. +My whole world seemed tumbling to destruction in one blinding crash. +You can never know, dear, how utterly dismayed and angry and helpless +I felt. All that I knew was that for months and months I had let +Dorothy Parkman read to me, play with me, and talk to me--that I had +been eager to take all the time she would give me; when all the while +she had been doing it out of pity, of course, and I could see just how +she must have been shuddering and turning away her eyes all the long, +long weeks she had been with me, at different times. But even more +than that, if possible, was the chagrin and dismay with which I +realized that all the while I had been cheated and deceived and made a +fool of, because I was blind, and could not see. I had been tricked +into putting myself in such a position." + +"No, no! You didn't understand," protested the girl. + +"Of course, I didn't understand, dear. Nobody who is blinded with rage +and hurt pride can understand--anything, rightly." + +"But you wouldn't let me explain afterwards." + +"No, I didn't want you to explain. I was too sore, too deeply hurt, +too--well, I couldn't. That's all. Besides, I didn't want you to know +--how much I was caring about it all. So, a little later, when I did +see you, I tried to toss it all off lightly, as of no consequence +whatever." + +"Well, you--succeeded," commented Dorothy dryly. + +"I had to, you see. I had found out then how much I really did care. I +knew then that somehow you and Miss Stewart were hopelessly mixed up +in my heart, and that I loved you, and that the world without you was +going to be one big desert of loneliness and longing. You see, it had +not been so hard to give you up in imagination; but when it came to +the real thing---" + +"But, Keith, why--why did you insist that you must?" + +"Do you think I'd ask you or anybody to tie yourself to a helpless +creature who would probably finally end up on a street corner with a +tin cup for pennies? Besides, in your case, I had not forgotten the +shudders and the averted eyes. I still was so sure--- + +"Then John McGuire came home blind; and after a while I found I could +help him. And, Dorothy, then is when I learned that--that perhaps YOU +were as happy in doing things for me as I had been in doing them for +John McGuire. I sort of forgot the shudders and the averted eyes then. +Besides, along about that time we had got back to almost our old +friendliness--the friendliness and companionship of Miss Stewart and +me. Then the money came and I knew that at least I never should have +to ask you to subsist on what the tin cup of pennies could bring! And +I had almost begun to--to actually plan, when all of a sudden you +stopped coming, right off short." + +"But I--I went away," defended the girl, a little faintly. + +"Not at once. You were here in town a long time after that. I knew +because I used to hear about you. I was sure then that--that you had +seen I was caring for you, and so you stayed away. Besides, it came +back to me again--my old fear of your pity and aversion, of your eyes +turned away. You see, always, dear, that's been a sort of obsession +with me, I guess. I hate to feel that any one is looking at me-- +watching me. To me it seems like spying on me because I--I can't look +back. Yes, I know it's all very foolish and very silly; but we are all +foolish and silly over something. It's because of that feeling that I +--I so hate to enter a room and know that some one is there who won't +speak--who tries to cheat me into thinking I am alone. I--I can't bear +it, Dorothy. Just because I can't see them--" + +"I know, I know," nodded the girl. "Well, in December you went away. +Oh, I knew when you went. I knew a lot of things that YOU didn't know +I knew. But I was trying all those days to put you quite out of my +mind, and I busied myself with John McGuire and told myself that I was +satisfied with my work; that I had put you entirely out of my life. + +"Then you came back in February, and I knew I hadn't. I knew I loved +you more than ever. Just at first, the very first, I thought you had +come back to me. Then I saw--that it was dad. After that I tried--oh, +you don't know how hard I tried--to kill that wicked love in my heart. +Why, darling, nothing would have hired me to let you see it then. Let +dad know that his loving you hurt me? Fail dad there, as I had failed +him everywhere else? I guess not! This was something I COULD do. I +could let him have you, and never, never let him know. So I buried +myself in work and tried to--forget. + +"Then to-day you came. At the first sound of your voice in there, when +I realized what you were saying (to dad, I supposed), I started up and +would have gone. Then I was afraid you would see me pass the window, +and that it would be worse if I went than if I stayed. Besides, right +away I heard words that made me so weak with joy and amazement that my +knees bent under me and I had to sit down. And then--but you know the +rest, dear." + +"Yes, I know the rest; and I'll tell you, some time, why I--I stopped +coming last fall." + +"All right; but even that doesn't matter to me now; for now, in spite +of my blind eyes, the way looks all rosy ahead. Why, dear, it's like +the dawn---the dawn of a new day. And I used to so love the dawn! You +don't know, but years ago, with dad, I'd go camping in the woods, and +sometimes we'd stay all night on the mountain. I loved that, for in +the morning we'd watch the sun come up and flood the world with light. +And it seemed so wonderful, after the dark! And it's like that with me +to-day, dear. It's my dawn--the dawn of a new day. And it's so +wonderful--after the dark!" + +"Oh, Keith, I'm so glad! And, listen, dear. It's not only dawn for +you, but for all those blind boys down there that you are helping. You +have opened their eyes to the dawn of THEIR new day. Don't you see?" + +Keith drew in his breath with a little catch. + +"Have I? Do you think I have? Oh, I should like to think--that. I +don't know, of course, about them. But I do know about myself. And I +know it's the most wonderful dawn ever was for me. And I know that +with your little hand in mine I'll walk fearlessly straight on, with +my chin up. And now that I know dad doesn't care, and that he isn't +going to be unhappy about my loving you and your loving me, I haven't +even that to fear." + +"And, oh, Keith, think, think what it would have been if--if I hadn't +defied the 'properties,'" she faltered mistily. + +"Dear old Susan--bless her heart! And that isn't all I owe her. +Something she said the other day made me hope that maybe I hadn't even +quite failed--dad. And I so wanted to make good--for dad!" + +"And you've done it, Keith." + +"But maybe he--he doesn't think so." + +"But he does. He told me." + +"He TOLD you!" + +"Yes--last night. He said that once he had great plans for you, great +ambitions, but that he never dreamed he could be as proud of you as he +is right now--what you had done for yourself, and what you were doing +for those boys down there." + +"Did dad say that?" + +"Yes." + +"And to think of my having that, and you, too!" breathed the man, his +arm tightening about her. + +THE END + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Dawn, by Eleanor H. Porter + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DAWN *** + +This file should be named dwnpr10.txt or dwnpr10.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, dwnpr11.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, dwnpr10a.txt + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Charles Franks +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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