[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 theGreat Terror, though he did not know it by that name until some daysafterward. 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 readit. 

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 theimperfection of his gift. 

Poor father! He would feel so bad after he had taken all that painsand spent all that money--and for something not absolutely necessary, too! And then to get cheated like that. For, of course, he had beencheated--such horrid print that nobody could read. 

But it was only a day or two later that Keith found some more horridprint. This time it was in his father's weekly journal that came everySaturday morning. He found it again that night in a magazine, and yetagain the next day in the Sunday newspaper. 

Then, before he had evolved a satisfactory explanation in his own mindof this phenomenon, he heard Susan Betts talking with Mrs. McGuireover 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 Keithcalled her "excitingest" voice. Then, as was always the case when shespoke in that voice, she plunged on without waiting for a reply, as iffearful 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 ifyou shook it right before his eyes. "

"Sho! you don't say!" Mrs. McGuire dropped the wet sheet back into thebasket and came to the fence on her side concernedly. "Now, ain't thattoo bad?"

"Yes, ain't it? An' he so kind, an' now so blind! It jest makes mesick. " Susan whipped open the twisted folds of a wet towel. Susanseldom stopped her work to talk. "But I saw it comin' long ago. An' hedid, too, poor man!"

Mrs. McGuire lifted a bony hand to her face and tucked a flying wispof 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 BACKYARDFENCE]

"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'tdoctor 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 akite or a gun or a jack-knife so far gone that Uncle Joe Harringtoncould not "fix it" somehow. And he was always so jolly about it, andso glad to do it. But it took eyes to do such things, and if now hewas 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 saynothin' ter nobody, hardly, only me, I guess, an' I suspicioned it, orhe wouldn't 'a' said it to me, probably. Ye see, I found out he wa'n'treadin' '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'tread '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 atalmost the same moment Mrs. McGuire had excitedly asked the samequestion. 

"Blurred?" she cried. 

"Yes; all run tergether like--the printin', ye know----so he couldn'ttell 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? 'Twas his EYES, an' he didn't know it. He was gettin' blind, an' thatwas jest the beginnin'. "

Susan's capable hands picked up another wet towel and snapped it openby 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 littledeeper 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 ofall 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 velvetsofa with a gold cupola over her head a-chargin' five dollars apiecefor 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 itbefore you. Still, you'd 'a' found it out quick enough--an' you withyour tops an' balls always runnin' up there. An' that's what the poorsoul 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 jestcouldn't sleep that night, an' I had ter get up an' write. But it madea 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 thestory, ye know, all the kites an' jack-knives an' balls an' bats thathe's fixed for the boys all these years, an' how bad they felt becausehe 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!" ejaculatedMrs. McGuire, with disapproving admiration. "If you was dyin' Ibelieve 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 donealready. "

"Susan Betts, you haven't!" gasped the scandalized woman on the otherside of the fence. 

"Haven't I? Listen, " challenged Susan Betts, striking an attitude. Herface 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 againwickedly, and fell to work on her basket of clothes in good earnest. 

A moment later she was holding up with stern disapproval two sockswith gaping heels. 

"Keith Burton, here's them scandalous socks again! Now, do you go tellyour father that I won't touch 'em. I won't mend 'em another once. Hemust 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 thatstrained, white look on his face he had hurried out of the yard andthrough 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 gotyour darnin' egg in 'em. "

Susan laughed ruefully. Then she sighed:--at arms' length she washolding 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 hisfather would sense it, with his nose in that paint-box. Much as everas he's got sense enough ter put on his own clothes--and he WOULDN'Tknow 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 virtuousshake of her head. "An' he with his fine bringin'-up, an' now to be soshiftless 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 mymaster, " she said with dignity. "He's neither shiftless, nor good-for-nothin'. His character is unbleachable! He's an artist an' a scholaran' a gentleman, an' a very superlative man. It's because he knows somuch that--that he jest hain't got room for common things like clothesan' holes in socks. "

"Stuff an' nonsense!" retorted Mrs. McGuire nettled in her turn. "Iguess I've known Dan'l Burton as long as you have; an' as for hisbein' 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 hillthat led to old Mr. Harrington's shabby cottage. 

The boy's eyes were fixed straight ahead. A squirrel whisked his tailalluringly from the bushes at the left, and a robin twittered from atree branch on the right. But the boy neither saw nor heard--and whenbefore had Keith Burton failed to respond to a furred or featheredchallenge like that?

To-day there was an air of dogged determination about even the way heset one foot before the other. He had the air of one who sees his goalahead and cannot reach it soon enough. Yet when Keith arrived at thesagging, open gate before the Harrington cottage, he stopped short asif 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 heapproached the stoop, on which sat an old man. 

At the steps, as at the gate, Keith stopped and waited, his gaze onthe motionless figure in the rocking-chair. The old man sat with handsfolded on his cane-top, his eyes apparently looking straight ahead. 

Slowly the boy lifted his right arm and waved it soundlessly. Helifted his left--but there was no waving flourish. Instead it fellimpotently almost before it was lifted. On the stoop the old man stillsat motionless, his eyes still gazing straight ahead. 

Again the boy hesitated; then, with an elaborately careless air, heshuffled 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, anda trembling hand thrust itself aimlessly forward. "It IS Keith--ain'tit?"

"Oh, yes, sir, I'm Keith. "

The boy, with a quick look about him, awkwardly shook the flutteringfingers--Keith was not in the habit of shaking hands with people, least of all with Uncle Joe Harrington. He sat down then on the stepat the old man's feet. 

"What did ye bring ter-day, my boy?" asked the man eagerly; then witha 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 mendedto-day. " Unconsciously Keith had raised his voice. He was speakingloudly, and very politely. 

The old man fell back in his chair. He looked relieved, yetdisappointed. 

"Oh, well, that's all right, then. I'm glad. That is, of course, if Icould have fixed it for you--His sentence remained unfinished. Aprofound gloom settled over his countenance. 

"But I didn't bring anything for you to fix, " reiterated the boy, in ayet louder tone. 

"There, there, my boy, you don't have to shout. " The old man shifteduneasily 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. Yourshurt a lot, didn't they?--I mean, your eyes; they--they ached, didn'tthey, before they--they got--blind?" He spoke eagerly, almosthopefully. 

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 tobe 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, doesit?" Keith's voice vibrated with confidence this time. 

"Old? I ain't so very old. I'm only seventy-five, " bridled Harringtonresentfully. "Besides anyhow, the doctor said age didn't have nothin'ter do with this kind of blindness. It comes ter young folks, realyoung 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 itagain with the words left unsaid. Then, with a breathless rush, verymuch 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 whatwas 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 justthat I couldn't see ter read clear an' distinct. It was all sort ofblurred. "

"Kind of run together?" Just above his breath Keith asked thequestion. 

"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 itdidn'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 afog, like, an' I couldn't see anything real clear an' distinct. "

"Oh, but things--other things--don't look a mite foggy to me, " criedthe boy. 

"'Course they don't! Why should they? They didn't to me--once, "retorted the man impatiently. "But now--" Again he left a sentenceunfinished. 

"But how soon did--did you get--all blind, after that?" stammered theboy, breaking the long, uncomfortable silence that had followed theold man's unfinished sentence. 

"Oh, five or six months--maybe more. I don't know exactly. I know itcame, that's all. I guess if 't was you it wouldn't make no differenceHOW 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--ofcourse't isn't coming to me! Well, good-bye, Uncle Joe, I got to gonow. 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 hisheart Keith knew that beside him that very minute stalked thatshadowy, intangible creature that had dogged his footsteps ever sincehis fourteenth birthday-gift from his father; and he knew it now byname--The Great Terror. 

CHAPTER II

DAD

Keith's chin was still high and his gaze still straight ahead when hereached the foot of Harrington Hill. Perhaps that explained why he didnot see the two young misses on the fence by the side of the roaduntil a derisively gleeful shout called his attention to theirpresence. 

"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 againgleefully. "Dear, dear, did we scare him? We're so sorry!"

The boy flushed painfully. Keith did not like girls--that is, he SAIDhe 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. Theprettier the girls were, the more acute was his discomfiture. Particularly, therefore, did he dislike these two girls--they were theprettiest of the lot. They were Mazie Sanborn and her friend DorothyParkman. 

Mazie was the daughter of the town's richest manufacturer, and Dorothywas her cousin from Chicago, who made such long visits to her Easternrelatives that it seemed sometimes almost as if she were as much of aHinsdale girl as was Mazie herself. 

To-day Mazie's blue eyes and Dorothy's brown ones were full ofmischief. 

"Well, why don't you say something? Why don't you apologize?" demandedMazie. 

'"Pol--pologize? What for?" In his embarrassed misery Keith resortedto bravado in voice and manner. 

"Why, for passing us by in that impertinent fashion, " returned Mazieloftily. "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 theother. Then, with an inarticulate grunt, he turned away. 

But Mazie was not to be so easily thwarted. With a mere flit of herhand she tossed aside a score of years, and became instantly nothingmore than a wheedling little girl coaxing a playmate. 

"Aw, Keithie, don't get mad! I was only fooling. Say, tell me, HAVEyou been up to Uncle Joe Harrington's?"

Because Mazie had caught his arm and now held it tightly, the boyperforce came to a stop. 

"Well, what if I have?" he resorted to bravado again. 

"And is he blind, honestly?" Mazie's voice became hushed andawestruck. 

"Uh-huh. " The boy nodded his head with elaborate unconcern, but heshifted 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, andpulled not too gently at the arm still held in Mazie's firm littlefingers. 

"Blind! Ugghh!" interposed Miss Dorothy, shuddering visibly. "Oh, howcan 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 ithad receded, leaving only a white, strained terror. 

"Well, he ain't to blame for it, if he is blind, is he?" chattered theboy, a bit incoherently. "If you're blind you're blind, and you can'thelp yourself. " And with a jerk he freed himself from Mazie's graspand 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 weredeeply 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 hecould. Nor did he stop till he had entered his own gate. 

"Well, Keith Burton, I should like to know where you've been, " criedthe 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'lldo it all the more. "

"Oh, no, he won't--not if it's talking poetry. Father never talkspoetry. 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 ofkeeps time, like. It's always been so. Why, Keithie, boy, it's been myjoy--There, you see--jest like that! I didn't know that was comin'. Itjest--jest came. That's all. I can make a rhyme 'most any time. Oh, ofcourse, most generally, when I write real poems, I have to sit downwith a pencil an' paper, an' write 'em out. It's only the spontaneouscombustion kind that comes all in a minute, without predisposedthinkin'. Now, run along to your pa, child. He wants you. He's beenfrettin' the last hour for you, jest because he didn't know exactlywhere you was. Goodness me! I only hope I'll never have to live withhim if anything happens to you. "

The boy had crossed the room; but with his hand on the door knob heturned 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 happenedto you. You know as well as I do that he thinks you're the very axlefor the earth to whirl 'round on. But, there, I don't know as Iwonder--jest you left, so!"

The boy abandoned his position at the door, and came close to SusanBetts's side. 

"That's what I've always wanted to know. Other boys have brothers andsisters 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. Thenthere was--your mother. "

"But I never--knew her?"

"No, child. When they opened the door of Heaven to let you out sheslipped in, poor lamb. An' then you was all your father had left. Soof course he dotes on you. Goodness me, there ain't no end to the finethings 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 bethere. Keith knew that. Dad was always there, when he wasn't sleepingor eating, or out tramping through the woods. He would be sittingbefore the easel now "puttering" over a picture, as Susan called it. Susan said he was a very "insufficient, uncapacious" man--but that waswhen she was angry or tried with him. She never let any one else saysuch things about him. 

Still, dad WAS very different from other dads. Keith had toacknowledge that--to himself. Other boys' dads had offices and storesand shops and factories where they worked, or else they were doctorsor ministers; and there was always money to get things with--thingsthat boys needed; shoes and stockings and new clothes, and candy andbaseball bats and kites and jack-knives. 

Dad didn't have anything but a studio, and there never seemed to bemuch money. What there was, was an "annual, " Susan said, whatever thatwas. Anyway, whatever it was, it was too small, and not nearly largeenough to cover expenses. Susan had an awful time to get enough to buytheir food with sometimes. She was always telling dad that she'd GOTto have a little to buy eggs or butter or meat with. 

And there were her wages--dad was always behind on those. And when thebills came in at the first of the month, it was always awful then: dadworried and frowning and unhappy and apologetic and explaining; Susancross and half-crying. Strange men, not overpleasant-looking, ringingthe doorbell peremptorily. And never a place at all where a boy mightfeel comfortable to stay. Dad was always talking then, especially, howhe 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 anew picture, and be SURE he was going to sell THAT. 

But not only was dad different from other boys' dads, but the housewas different. First it was very old, and full of very old furnitureand dishes. Then blinds and windows and locks and doors were alwaysgetting out of order; and they were apt to remain so, for there wasnever any money to fix things with. There was also a mortgage on thehouse. That is, Susan said there was; and by the way she said it, itwould seem to be something not at all attractive or desirable. Justwhat a mortgage was, Keith did not exactly understand; but, for thatmatter, quite probably Susan herself did not. Susan always liked touse big words, and some of them she did not always know the meaningof, dad said. 

To-day, in the hallway, Keith stood a hesitant minute before hisfather'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 oncedescribed him as "an awfully nice man to take care of, but not worth acent when it comes to takin' care of you. " Yet there was everyevidence of loving protection in the arm he threw around his boy justnow. 

"Want you? I always want you!" he cried affectionately. "Look! Do youremember that moss we brought home yesterday? Well, I've got its twinnow. " Triumphantly he pointed to the lower left-hand corner of thepicture on the easel, where was a carefully blended mass of greens andbrowns. 

"Oh, yes, why, so't is. " (Keith had long since learned to see in hisfather's pictures what his father saw. ) "Say, dad, I wish't you'd tellme about--my little brothers. Won't you, please?"

"And, Keith, look--do you recognize that little path? It's the one wesaw yesterday. I'm going to call this picture 'The Woodland Path'--andI 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 turnedaside. Usually Keith submitted with what grace he could muster; butto-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 theirnames, 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'sshoulder 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, thatthey went, one after the other, not two days apart? And then the sunwent out and left the world gray and cold and cheerless, for the nextday--your mother went. "

"And how about me, dad?"

The man did not seem to have heard. Still with his arm about the boy'sshoulder, he had dropped back into the seat before the easel. His eyesnow were somberly fixed out the window. 

"Wasn't I--anywhere, dad?"

With a start the man turned. His arm tightened again. His eyes grewmoist 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 becauseyou were ALL there was left. Then, little by little, I found you werelooking at me with your mother's eyes, and touching me with thefingers of Ned and Jerry. And now--why, boy, you're everything. You'reNed and Jerry and your mother all in one, my boy, my boy!"

Keith stirred restlessly. A horrible tightness came to his throat, yetthere 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-pitchedsingsong:

 "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 hadSusan's "dinner-bell" been a more welcome sound. Surely, at dinner, his throat would have to loosen up, and that lump could then beswallowed. 

More slowly Keith's father rose from his chair. 

"How impossible Susan is, " he sighed. "I believe she grows worse everyday. Still I suppose I ought to be thankful she's good-natured--whichthat absurd doggerel of hers proves that she is. However, I shouldlike to put a stop to it. I declare, I believe I will put a stop toit, too! I'm going to insist on her announcing her meals in a propermanner. 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 helplesspause. 

"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'ileddinner, sir. You was sayin'?"

"Nothing, Susan, nothing. I--I've changed my mind, " murmured the manhastily, pulling out his chair. "Well, Keith, will you have some ofSusan's nice hash?"

"Yes, sir, " said Keith. 

Susan said nothing. But was there a quiet smile on her lips as sheleft 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 ita second thought. And as for the doggerel that had brought about thesituation--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, andhow 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'trhyme, an' 'ate' does. So I'm goin' to use it. An' I can, anyhow. It'spoem license; an' that'll let you do anything. "

Since then she had used the verse for every meal--except when she wasout of temper--and by substituting breakfast or supper for dinner, shehad a call that was conveniently universal. 

The fact that she used it ONLY when she was good-natured constitutedan unfailing barometer of the atmospheric condition of the kitchen, and was really, in a way, no small convenience--especially for littleboys in quest of cookies or bread-and-jam. As for the master of thehouse--this was not the first time he had threatened an energeticwarfare against that "absurd doggerel" (which he had cordiallyabhorred from the very first); neither would it probably be the lasttime that Susan's calm "Well, sir?" should send him into ignominiousdefeat before the battle was even begun. And, really, after all wassaid and done, there was still that one unfailing refuge for hisdiscomforted recollection: he could be thankful, when he heard it, that she was good-natured; and with Susan that was no small thing tobe thankful for, as everybody knew--who knew Susan. 

To-day, therefore, the defeat was not so bitter as to take all thesweetness out of the "red-flannel" hash, and the frown on DanielBurton's face was quite gone when Susan brought in the dessert. Nordid it return that night, even when Susan's shrill voice caroledthrough 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 muchthat summer. 

"An' him with his nose always in a book before, " as she said one dayto Mrs. McGuire. "An' he don't act natural, somehow, neither, ter myway of thinkin'. Have YOU noticed anything?"

"Why, no, I don't know as I have, " answered Mrs. McGuire from theother side of the fence, "except that he's always traipsin' off to thewoods 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, sometimestwo; an' now--why he hain't even read the book his father give him onhis 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 aboutthat. 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 boydidn'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 MasterKeith is a different supposition entirely. He's very intelligible, Master Keith is, and so is his father before him. Books is food tothem--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 bothhands and turning away scornfully. "Of course, when you get to talkin'like that, NOBODY can say anything to you! However in the world thatpoor Mr. Burton puts up with you, I don't see. _I_ wouldn't--not aday--not a single day!" And by way of emphasis she entered her houseand shut the door with a slam. 

Susan Betts, left alone, shrugged her shoulders disdainfully. 

"Well, 'nobody asked you, sir, she said, '" she quoted, under herbreath, and slammed her door, also, by way of emphasis. 

Yet both Susan and Mrs. McGuire knew very well that the next day wouldfind them again in the usual friendly intercourse over the back-yardfence. 

Susan Betts was a neighbor's daughter. She had lived all her life inthe town, and she knew everybody. Just because she happened to work inDaniel Burton's kitchen was no reason, to her mind, why she should notbe allowed to express her opinion freely on all occasions, and on allsubjects, and to all persons. Such being her conviction she conductedherself 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 somethingbesides beans and codfish and fish-hash to eat. Anyhow, he SAID he wasgoing 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 littlegood that'll do, as he ought to know very well. Beefsteaks an' roastfowls cost money. Has he got the money for me?"

Without waiting for an answer to her question, she strode through thedoor leading to the dining-room and shut it crisply behind her. 

The boy did not follow her. Alone, in the kitchen he drummed idly onthe window-pane, watching the first few drops of a shower that hadbeen darkening the sky for an hour past. 

After a minute he turned slowly and gazed with listless eyes about thekitchen. On the table lay a folded newspaper. After a moment'shesitation he crossed the room toward it. He had the air of oneimpelled by some inner force against his will. 

He picked the paper up, but did not at once look at it. In fact, helooked anywhere but at it. Then, with a sudden jerk, he faced it. Shivering a little he held it nearer, then farther away, then neareragain. Then, with an inarticulate little cry he dropped the paper andhurried from the room. 

No one knew better than Keith himself that he was not reading muchthis summer. Not that he put it into words, but he had a feeling thatso long as he was not SEEING how blurred the printed words were, hewould 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 itup--and make sure. Most of the time, however, Keith tried not tonotice the books and papers. Systematically he tried to forget thatthere were books and papers--and he tried to forget the Great Terror. 

Sometimes he persuaded himself that he was doing this. He contrived tokeep himself very busy that summer. Almost every day, when it did notrain, he was off for a long walk with his father in the woods. Hisfather liked to walk in the woods. Keith never had to urge him to dothat. And what good times they had!--except that Keith did wish thathis 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 greatartist. 

One day he ventured to remonstrate. 

"But, dad, maybe I--I shan't be a great artist at all. Maybe I shan'tbe even a little one. Maybe I shall be just a--a man. "

Keith never forgot his father's answer nor his father's anguished faceas he made that answer. 

"Keith, I don't ever want you to let me hear you say that again. Iwant 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. Youneedn't shake your head, boy, and say 'Oh, dad!' like that. I knowperfectly well what I'm talking about. _I_ HAVE FAILED---though it isnot often that I'll admit it, even to myself. But when I heard you sayto-day---

"Keith, listen to me. You've got to succeed. You've got to succeed notonly for yourself, but for Jerry and Ned, and for--me. All my hopesfor Jerry and Ned and for--myself are in you, boy. That's why, in allour walks together, and at home in the studio, I'm trying to teach yousomething that you will want to know by and by. "

Keith never remonstrated with his father after that. He felt worsethan ever now when his father talked of what great things he was goingto do; but he knew that remonstrances would do no good, but ratherharm; and he did not want to hear his father talk again as he hadtalked that day, about Jerry and Ned and himself. As if it were notbad enough, under the best of conditions, to have to be great andfamous for one's two dead brothers and one's father; while if one wereblind---

But Keith refused to think of that. He tried very hard, also, toabsorb everything that his father endeavored to teach him. He listenedand watched and said "yes, sir, " and he did his best to make thechalks and charcoal that were put into his hands follow the copy setfor him. 

To be sure, in this last undertaking, his efforts were not alwayssuccessful. The lines wavered and blurred and were far from clear. Still, they were not half so bad as the print in books; and if itshould not get any worse--Besides, had he not always loved to drawcats and dogs and faces ever since he could hold a pencil?

And so, with some measure of hope as to the results, he was settinghimself to be that great and famous artist that his father said hemust be. 

But it was not all work for Keith these summer days. There were gamesand picnics and berry expeditions with the boys and girls, all ofwhich he hailed with delight--one did not have to read, or even studywavering lines and figures, on picnics or berrying expeditions! Andthat WAS a relief. To be sure, there was nearly always Mazie, and ifthere was Mazie, there was bound to be Dorothy. And Dorothy had said--Some way he could never see Dorothy without remembering what she didsay on that day he had come home from Uncle Joe Harrington's. 

Not that he exactly blamed her, either. For was not he himself actingas 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? Notonce, since that first day, had he been up to see the poor old blindman. 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 anew 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 atwinkle 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, Iween. "

"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 miteof good. You might jest as well out with it first as last. Now, whatis it you want?"

Keith drew a long sigh. 

"Well, Susan, there IS something--a little something--only I meantwhat 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 actuallyforgot 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'tgood for me. And truly, I am quite a little sick, Susan. I don't feelwell 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 gavefree rein to her wrath. 

"Let you off from school, indeed! Why, Keith Burton, I'm ashamed ofyou--an' you that I've always boasted of! What do you want to do--growup 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'tintend to be one, either. I'm going to be an artist--a great bigfamous artist, and I don't NEED school for that. How aremultiplication tables and history and grammar going to help me paintbig 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---"Buthe stopped short, so extraordinary was the expression that had come toSusan Betts's face. If it were possible to think of Susan Betts ascrying, 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 realpoetry then that would sell. I could 'a' spoke out an' said thingsthat are in my soul, an' that I CAN'T say now, 'cause I don't know thewords that--that will impress what I mean. Now, look a-here, KeithBurton, you're young. You've got a chance. Do you see to it that youmake 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 leftthe studio and walked slowly down the hall. 

There was no way out of it. If one were successfully to be Jerry andNed and dad and one's self, all in one, there was nothing but schooland more school, and, yes, college, that would give one the propertraining. Dad had said it. 

Keith went to school the next morning. With an oh-well-I-don't-careair 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 theprint would be plainer now. Anyway, he could learn a lot in classlistening to the others; and maybe some of the boys would study withhim, and do the reading part. 

But it was not to be so easy as Keith hoped for. To begin with, theprint had not grown any clearer. It was more blurred than ever. To besure, it was much worse with one eye than with the other; but he couldnot keep one eye shut all the time. Besides--his eyes ached now if hetried to use them much, and grew red and inflamed, and he was afraidhis father would notice them. He began to see strange flashes ofrainbow light now, too. And sometimes little haloes around the lampflame. As if one could study books with all that!

True, he learned something in class--but naturally he was never calledupon to recite what had already been given, so he invariably failedmiserably 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 todo "all the reading, " without being told the reason why it wasexpected of him--and that was exactly what Keith was straining everynerve 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 thelast. Of course, it could not continue indefinitely, and Keith, in hisheart, knew it. Almost every lesson was more or less of a failure, andrecitation hour was a torture and a torment. The teacher alternatelyreproved and reproached him, with frequent appeals to his pride, holding up for comparison his splendid standing of the past. Hisclassmates gibed and jeered mercilessly. And Keith stood it all. Onlya tightening of his lips and a new misery in his eyes showed that hehad heard and understood. He made neither apology nor explanation. Above all, by neither word nor sign did he betray that, because theprint in his books was blurred, he could not study. 

Then came the day when his report card was sent to his father, and hehimself 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 thecard, face outward. Keith knew that the damning figures were there, and he suspected what they were, though he could see only a blurredmass of indistinct marks. With one last effort he attempted still tocling to his subterfuge. 

"What--what is it?" he stammered. 

"'What is it?'--and in the face of a record like that!" cried hisfather sternly. "That's exactly what I want to know. What is it? Isthis the way, Keith, that you're showing me that you don't want to goto school? I haven't forgotten, you see, that you tried to beg offgoing this fall. Now, what is the matter?"

Keith shifted his position miserably. His face grew white andstrained-looking. 

"I--I couldn't seem to get my lessons, dad. "

"Couldn't! You mean you wouldn't, Keith. Surely, you're not trying tomake me think you couldn't have made a better record than this, ifyou'd tried. "

There was no answer. 

"Keith!" There was only pleading in the voice now--pleading with anunsteadiness more eloquent than words. "Have you forgotten so soonwhat I told you?--how now you hold all the hopes of Jerry and Ned andof--dad in your own two hands? Keith, do you think, do you reallythink you're treating Jerry and Ned and dad--square?"

For a moment there was no answer; then a very faint, constrained voiceasked:

"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 thewords came. 

"I--can't--dad. "

The man smiled grimly. 

"Well, I don't know as I wonder. They are pretty bad. However, I guesswe'll have to have them. Read them aloud, Keith. "

"But, honest, dad, I can't. I mean--they're all blurred and runtogether. " 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 momentbefore his own eyes. Then sharply he looked at his son again. "Youmean--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 hadthat 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 newlook came to his eyes. Into his son's face he threw a glance at oncefearful, searching, rebellious. Then he straightened up angrily. 

"Nonsense, Keith! Don't get silly notions into your head, " he snappedsharply. "It's nothing but a little near-sightedness, and we'll havesome glasses to remedy that in no time. We'll go down to theoptician's to-morrow. Meanwhile I'll drop a note to your teacher, andyou 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, likeUncle Joe's at all. Didn't dad know? Of course, he did! Still, if itwas near-sightedness he ought to be able to see near to; and yet itwas just as blurred--But, then, of course it WAS near-sightedness. Dadsaid it was. 

They went to the optician's the next morning. It seemed there was anoculist, too, and he had to be seen. When the lengthy and arduousexaminations 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 notget any glasses, and that his father was very angry, and very much putout about something, and that he kept declaring that these old idiotsdidn't know their business, anyway, and the only thing to do was to goto Boston where there was somebody who DID know his business. 

They went to Boston a few days later. It was not a long journey, butKeith hailed it with delight, and was very much excited over theprospect of it. Still, he did not enjoy it very well, for with hisfather he had to go from one doctor to another, and none of themseemed really to understand his business--that is, not well enough tosatisfy his father, else why did he go to so many? And there did notseem 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 forgetUncle Joe--and Uncle Joe had not been able to find any glasses thatdid any good. Besides, he heard his father and the doctors talking agreat deal about "an accident, " and a "consequent injury to the opticnerve"; and he had to answer a lot of questions about the time when hewas 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, couldhave anything to do with things looking blurred now!

But it did have something to do with it--several of the doctors saidthat; and they said it was possible that a slight operation now mightarrest the disease. They would try it. Only one eye was badly affectedat present. 

So it was arranged that Keith should stay a month with one of thedoctors, letting his father go back to Hinsdale. 

It was not a pleasant experience, and it seemed to Keith anything buta "slight operation"; but at the end of the month the bandages wereoff, and his father had come to take him back home. 

The print was not quite so blurred now, though it was still far fromclear, and Keith noticed that his father and the doctors had a greatdeal to say to each other in very low tones, and that his father'sface was very grave. 

Then they started for home. On the journey his father talkedcheerfully, even gayly; but Keith was not at all deceived. For perhapshalf 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 anythingPARTICULAR before me. They always talked to you soft and low on oneside. I want to know what they said then. "

"Why, really, Keith, they---"

"Dad, " interposed the boy a bit tensely, when his father's hesitationleft the sentence unfinished, "you might just as well tell me. I knowalready it isn't good, or you'd have told me right away. And if it'sbad--I might just as well know it now, 'cause I'll have to know itsometime. 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 solong. 'Keith, you're going to be blind. ' I wish't you'd say it rightout 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 manwet his lips and cleared his throat huskily. "They said--it would besome time yet before they could tell, for sure. And even then, if itcame, there might be another operation that--But for now, Keith, we'vegot to wait--that's all. I've got some drops, and there are certainthings you'll have to do each day. You can't go to school, and youcan't read, of course; but there are lots of things you can do. Andthere are lots of things we can do together--you'll see. And it'scoming out all right. It's bound to come out all right. "

"Yes, sir. " Keith said the two words, then shut his lips tight. Keithcould not trust himself to talk much just then. Babies and girlscried, of course; but men, and boys who were almost men--they did notcry. 

For a long minute he said nothing; then, with his chin held high andhis 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 rightarm that clasped with a pressure that hurt. 

CHAPTER V

WAITING

Not for some days after his return from Boston did Keith venture outupon the street. He knew then at once that the whole town had heardall about his trip to Boston and what the doctors had said. He triednot to see the curious glances cast in his direction. He tried not tocare that the youngest McGuire children stood at their gate andwhispered, with fingers plainly pointing toward himself. 

He did not go near the schoolhouse, and he stayed at the post-officeuntil he felt sure all the scholars must have reached home. Then, justat the corner of his own street, he met Mazie Sanborn and DorothyParkman face to face. He would have passed quickly, with the briefestsort of recognition, but Mazie stopped him short. 

"Keith, oh, Keith, it isn't true, is it?" she cried breathlessly. "Youaren't going to be blind?"

"Mazie, how could you!" cried Dorothy sharply. And because sheshuddered and half turned away, Keith saw only the shudder and theturning 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'ttalked 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, withdignity. And with a low chuckle Mazie tossed a good-bye to Keith andfollowed 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 wasmuttering fiercely, under his breath. "Well, she needn't worry. If Ido get blind, I'll take good care she don't have to look at me, norMazie, nor any of the rest of them. "

Keith went out on the street very little after that, and especially hekept away from it after school hours. They were not easy--those winterdays. The snow lay deep in the woods, and it was too cold for longwalks. He could not read, nor paint, nor draw, nor use his eyes aboutanything that tried them. But he was by no means idle. He had foundnow "the boy to do the reading"--his father. For hours every day theystudied together, Keith memorizing, where it was necessary, what hisfather read, always discussing and working out the problems together. That he could not paint or draw was a great cross to his father, heknew. 

Keith noticed, too, --and noticed it with a growing heartache, --thatnothing was ever said now about his being Jerry and Ned and dadhimself all in a bunch. And he understood, of course, that if he wasgoing to be blind, he could not be Jerry and--

But Keith was honestly trying not to think of that; and he welcomedmost heartily anything or anybody that helped him toward that end. 

Now there was Susan. Not once had Susan ever spoken to him of hiseyes, whether he could or could not see. But Susan knew about it. Hewas sure of that. First he suspected it when he found her, the nextday after his return from Boston, crying in the pantry. 

SUSAN CRYING! Keith stood in the doorway and stared unbelievingly. Hehad 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, orthe 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 shelfbefore her. "Cryin'? Nonsense!" she snapped quaveringly. "Can't a bodypeel 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 thismornin', 'specially for you. "

With which astounding procedure--for her--Susan pushed a plate ofcookies and tarts toward him, then picked up her pan of onions andhurried into the kitchen. 

Once again Keith stared. Cookies and jam tarts, and made for him? Ifanything, this was even more incomprehensible than were the tears inSusan's eyes. Then suddenly the suspicion came to him--SUSAN KNEW. Andthis was her way---

The suspicion did not become a certainty, however, until two dayslater. Then he overheard Susan and Mrs. McGuire talking in thekitchen. He had slipped into the pantry to look for another of thosecookies made for him, when he heard Mrs. McGuire burst into thekitchen and accost Susan agitatedly. And her first words were suchthat he could not bring himself to step out into view. 

"Susan, " she had cried, "it ain't true, is it? IS it true that KeithBurton is going--BLIND? My John says---"

"Sh-h! You don't have to shout it out like that, do ye?" demandedSusan 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 meanything about it? Or, don't you know?"

Keith knew--though he could not see her--just how Susan was drawingherself up to her full height. 

"I guess I know--all there is to know, Mis' McGuire, " she said thencoldly. "But there ain't anybody KNOWS anything. We're jest waitin' tosee. " 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' donewith it. "

"Yes, I suppose so, " sighed Mrs. McGuire. Then, after a pause: "Butwhat 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 adreadful thing this is. My John says---"

"Don't I--DON'T I?" Susan's voice shook with emotion. "Don't yous'pose that I know what it would be with the sun put out, an' the moonan' the stars, an' never a thing to look at but black darkness all therest of your life? Never to be able to see the blue sky, or yourfather'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 tobe 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, itmay come sooner, or later. It may not come at all. An' while we AREwaitin' there ain't nothin' we can do except to do ev'rything thedoctor 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 inarticulatesomething that might have passed for almost any sort of comment, sherose to her feet and left the house. 

In the pantry, Keith, the cookies long since forgotten, shamelesslylistened at the door and held his breath to see which way Susan'sfootsteps led. Then, when he knew that the kitchen was empty, heslipped out, still cookyless, and hurried upstairs to his own room. 

Keith understood, after that, why Susan did not talk to him about hiseyes; and because he knew she would not talk, he felt at ease and atpeace with her. 

It was not so with others. With others (except with his father) henever 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 theground, 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 consciousnesswith the sights and sounds of his beloved out-of-doors, so that whenhis outer eyes were darkened, his inner eyes might still hold thepictures. Keith did not say this, even to himself; but when every daySusan questioned him minutely as to what he had seen, and begged himto describe every budding tree and every sunset, he wondered; was itpossible that Susan, too, was trying to fill that inner consciousnesswith visions?

Keith was thrown a good deal with Susan these days. Sometimes itseemed as if there were almost no one but Susan. Certainly all thoseothers who talked and questioned--he did not want to be with them. Andhis father--sometimes it seemed to Keith that his father did not liketo be with him as well as he used to. And, of course, if he was goingto 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 almostalways she had a cooky or a jam tart for him. She told lots of funnystories, and there were always her rhymes and jingles. She had a newone every day, sometimes two or three a day. 

There was no subject too big or too little for Susan to put intorhyme. Susan said that something inside of her was a gushing siphon ofpoems, anyway, and she just had to get them out of her system. And shetold 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 repeatingso many of her verses to him just now. But Keith was not deceived. Hehad not forgotten what Susan had said to Mrs. McGuire in the kitchenthat day; and he knew very well that all this especial attention tohim 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. AndApril 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 ofspring. Both eyes had become badly affected now. Keith knew that and--

THE FOG HAD COME. Keith had seen the fog for several days before heknew what it was. He had supposed it to be really--fog. Then one dayhe 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 asbright---" She stopped short. Keith could not see her face veryclearly--Keith was not seeing anything clearly these days. "Nonsense, Keith, of course, the sun is shinin'!" snapped Susan. "Now don't getsilly notions in your head!" Then she turned and hurried from theroom. 

And Keith knew. And he knew that Susan knew. 

Keith did not mention the fog to his father--dad did not likedisagreeable subjects. But somebody must have mentioned it--Susan, perhaps. At all events, before the week was out Keith went with hisfather again to Boston. 

It was a sorry journey. Keith did not need to go to Boston. Keith knewnow. There was no one who could tell him anything. Dad might laugh andjoke and call attention to everything amusing that he wanted to--itwould make no difference. Besides, as if he could not hear the shakein dad's voice under all the fun, and as if he could not feel thetremble 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 therewas 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 thehomeward journey. But that, too, made no difference. Keith alreadyknew. 

He knew so well that he did not question him at all. But if he had notknown, he would have known from Susan the next day. For he found Susancrying three times the next forenoon, and each time she snapped out soshort and sharp about something so entirely foreign from what he askedher that he would have known that Susan knew. 

Keith did wonder how many months it would be. Some way he had an ideait would be very few now. As long as it was coming he wished it wouldcome, and come quick. This waiting business--On the whole he was gladthat Susan was cross, and that his father spent his days shut away inhis own room with orders that he was not to be disturbed. For, as fortalking about this thing--

It was toward the last of July that Keith discovered how indistinctwere growing the outlines of the big pictures on the wall at the endof the hall. Day by day he had to walk nearer and nearer before hecould see them at all. He wondered just how many steps would bring himto the wall itself. He was tempted once to count them--but he couldnot bring himself to do that; so he knew then that in his heart he didnot 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 himselfit would be in two days then. But it did not come in two days. It didnot come in a week. Then, very suddenly, it came. 

He woke up one morning to find it quite dark. For a minute he thoughtit WAS dark; then the clock struck seven--and it was August. 

Something within Keith seemed to snap then. The long-pent strain ofmonths 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 theroom, his arms outstretched. But when his father and Susan reached theroom he had fallen to the floor in a dead faint. 

It was some weeks before Keith stood upright on his feet again. Hisillness 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' toget well. "

"Of course he's goin' to get well, " retorted Susan with emphasis. "Iknew he was, all the time. "

"All the same, I think it's a pity he is. " Mrs. McGuire's lips cametogether a bit firmly. "He's stone blind, I hear, an' my John says--"

"Well, what if he is?" demanded Susan, almost fiercely. "You wouldn'tkill the child, would you? Besides SEEIN' is only one of hisfacilities. He's got all the rest left. I reckon he'll show you he cando somethin' with them. "

Mrs. McGuire shook her head mournfully. 

"Poor boy, poor boy! How's he feel himself? Has he got his senses, hisreal senses yet?"

"He's just beginnin' to. " The harshness in Susan's voice betrayed herdifficulty in controlling it. "Up to now he hain't sensed anything, much. Of course, part of the time he hain't known ANYTHING--jest laythere 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 thehillside, ' till you could jest SEE the place he was talkin' about. Butnow--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'vebeen readin' up. First, I felt as you do--a little. I--I didn't WANThim 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 prisonbars with his poor blind eyes, then Keith could. An' I was goin' tohave him do it, too. An' so I went down to the library an' asked MissHemenway for a book about him. An' I read it. An' then she told meabout 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!" commentedMrs. McGuire, half admiringly, half disapprovingly. 

"Well, I did. An'--why, Mis' McGuire, you hain't any inception of anidea 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' nowshe 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 doa part of it. Look at Keith right here now. How are you goin' to takecare of him when he gets up an' begins to walk around? Why, he can'tsee 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 isexpulsive 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' doyour other work, too. Of course, there's his father--"

"His father! Good Heavens, woman, I wonder if you think I'd trust thatboy to his father?" demanded Susan indignantly. "Why, once let him gethis nose into that paint-box, an' he don't know anything--notanything. Why, I wouldn't trust him with a baby rabbit--if I cared forthe rabbit. Besides, he don't like to be with Keith, nor see him, northink of him. He feels so bad. "

"Humph! Well, if he does feel bad I don't think that's a very nice wayto show it. Not think of him, indeed! Well, I guess he'll find SOMEone has got to think of him now. But there! that's what you mightexpect of Daniel Burton, I s'pose, moonin' all day over those sillypictures of his. As my John says--"

"They're not silly pictures, " cut in Susan, flaring into instantwrath. "He HAS to paint pictures in order to get money to live, don'the? Well, then, let him paint. He's an artist--an extinguished artist--not just a common storekeeper. " (Mr. McGuire, it might be mentionedin passing, kept a grocery store. ) "An' if you're artistical, you'redifferent from other folks. You have to be. "

"Nonsense, Susan! That's all bosh, an' you know it. What if he doespaint pictures? That hadn't ought to hinder him from takin' propercare of his own son, had it?"

"Yes, if he's blind. " Susan spoke with firmness and decision. "Youdon't seem to understand at all, Mis' McGuire. Mr. Burton is anartist. Artists like flowers an' sunsets an' clouds an' brooks. Theydon't like disagreeable things. They don't want to see 'em or thinkabout 'em. I know. It's that way with Mr. Burton. Before, when Keithwas 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' onhim. He's lookin' thin an' bad an' sick. You see, he's sodisappointed, 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 isgoing to take care of him?"

Susan Betts frowned. 

"Well, _I_ could, I think. But there's a sister of Mr. Burton's--she'scomin'. "

"Not Nettie Colebrook?"

"Yes, Mis' Colebrook. That's her name. She's a widow, an' hain't gotanything 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 toboardin'-school with her. "

"Humph!" Susan threw a sharp glance into Mrs. McGuire's face. Susanlooked as if she wanted to ask another question. But she did not askit. "Humph!" she grunted again; and turned back to the sheet she washanging 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 sonatural 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 emptybasket she looked at it somberly. 

"Not the way it did before. Some way, there don't seem anything insideof 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 thehouse. 

CHAPTER VII

SUSAN TO THE RESCUE

It was when the nurse was resting and Susan was with Keith that theboy came to a full, realizing sense of himself, on his lips the time-worn question asked by countless other minds back from that mysteriousland 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 hadSusan talked like that?

"Sure it's Susan. "

"But I can't--see you--or anything. Oh-h!" With a shudder and aquivering cry the boy flung out his hands, then covered his eyes withthem. "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. Nobodywill want to see me now. I'm blind, Susan--blind!"

"Shucks! Everybody will want to see you, so's to see how splendid youare, 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. Ishan't be Jerry or Ned or dad. I shall be just ME. And I'll be pointedat everywhere; and they'll whisper and look and stare, and say, 'He'sblind--he's blind--he's blind. ' I tell you, Susan, I can't stand it. Ican't--I can't! I want to go back. I want to go back to where Ididn'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 goneaway up again. He still talked in a high, shrill voice, and stillthrashed his arms wildly about, till the little white powder the nursegave him got in its blessed work. And then he slept. 

Keith was entirely conscious the next day when Susan came in to sitwith him while the nurse took her rest. But it was a very differentKeith. It was a weary, spent, nerveless Keith that lay back on thepillow 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-drawnsigh 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 Susansat tense and motionless, watching the boy's face. Then, with almost aguilty look over her shoulder, she stammered:

"Keith, I don't want you to talk to me, but I do wish you'd just SPEAKto me. "

But Keith only shook his head again faintly and turned his face awayto the wall. 

By and by the nurse came in, and Susan left the room. She wentstraight to the kitchen, and she did not so much as look towardKeith's father whom she met in the hall. In the kitchen Susan caughtup a cloth and vigorously began to polish a brass faucet. The faucetwas already a marvel of brightness; but perhaps Susan could not seethat. One cannot always see clearly--through tears. 

Keith was like this every day after that, when Susan came in to sitwith him--silent, listless, seemingly devoid of life. Yet the doctordeclared that physically the boy was practically well. And the nursewas going at the end of the week. 

On the last day of the nurse's stay, Susan accosted her in the hallsomewhat abruptly. 

"Is it true that by an' by there could be an operator on that boy'seyes?"

"Oper--er--oh, operation! Yes, there might be, if he could only getstrong 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 shesmiled. "Oh! Oh, yes, I--I'm afraid it would--er--cost a good deal ofmoney, " she nodded over her shoulder as she went on into Keith's room. 

That evening Susan sought her employer in the studio. Daniel Burtonspent all his waking hours in the studio now. The woods and fieldswere nothing but a barren desert of loneliness to Daniel Burton--without Keith. 

The very poise of Susan's head spelt aggressive determination as sheentered the studio; and Daniel Burton shifted uneasily in his chair ashe faced her. Nor did he fail to note that she carried some foldedpapers in her hand. 

"Yes, yes, Susan, I know. Those bills are due, and past due, " he criednervously, 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 inSusan's face and manner that was puzzling, yet most promising. 

Unconsciously Daniel Burton sat a little straighter and lifted hischin--though his eyes were smiling. 

"Something else?"

"Yes. It's--poetry. "

"Oh, SUSAN!" It was as if a bubble had been pricked, leaving nothingbut 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 tosell--to get some money, you know, for the operator on the poor lamb'seyes. I--I wanted to help, some way. An' this is REAL poetry--truly itis!--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"! DanielBurton, with a helpless gesture that expressed embarrassment, dismay, bewilderment, and resignation, threw up both hands and settled back inhis chair. 

"Why, of--of course, Susan, read them, " he muttered as clearly as hecould, 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 theextraordinary, palpitating Susan, with the shining, pleading eyes. 

"Yes, go on. " Daniel Burton had to clear his throat before he couldsay even those two short words. 

"I called this 'Them Things That Plague, '" said Susan. "An' it'sreally true, too. Don't you know? Things DO plague worse nights, whenyou can't sleep. An' you get to thinkin' an' thinkin'. Well, that'swhat 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' thereain't hardly any poem license in it, too. I think they're a ways lotsbetter when there ain't; but sometimes, of course, you jest have touse it. There! an' now I've read 'em both to you--an' how much do yous'pose I can get for 'em--the two of 'em, either singly or doubly?"Susan was still breathless, still shining-eyed--a strange, exoticSusan, that Daniel Burton had never seen before. "I've heard thatwriters--some writers--get lots of money, Mr. Burton, an' I can writemore--lots more. Why, when I get to goin' they jest comeautocratically--poems do--without any thinkin' at all; an'--But howmuch DO you think I ought to get?"

"Get? Good Heavens woman!" Daniel Burton was on his feet now trying toshake off the conflicting emotions that were all but paralyzing him. "Why, you can't get anything for those da---" Just in time he pulledhimself up. At that moment, too, he saw Susan's face. He sat downlimply. 

"Susan. " He cleared his throat and began again. He tried to speakclearly, judiciously, kindly. "Susan, I'm afraid--that is, I'm notsure--Oh, hang it all, woman"--he was on his feet now--"send them, ifyou want to--but don't blame me for the consequences. " And with agesture, as of flinging the whole thing far from him, he turned hisback and walked away. 

"You mean--you don't think I can get hardly anything for 'em?" Anextraordinarily 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 breathshe turned abruptly and left the studio. 

That evening, in her own room, Susan pored over the two inexpensivemagazines that came to the house. She was searching for poems and foraddresses. 

As she worked she began to look more cheerful. Both the magazinespublished poems, and if they published one poem they would another, ofcourse, especially if the poem were a better one--and Susan could nothelp feeling that they were better (those poems of hers) than almostany she saw there in print before her. There was some SENSE to herpoems, while those others--why, some of them didn't mean anything, notanything!--and they didn't even rhyme!

With real hope and courage, therefore, Susan laboriously copied offthe addresses of the two magazines, directed two envelopes, and setherself to writing the first of her two letters. That done, she copiedthe 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 toldsomething of herself, and of her habit of turning everything intorhyme; for she felt it due to them, she said, that they know somethingof the person with whom they were dealing. She touched again on thepoverty of the household, and let it plainly be seen that she had highhopes of the money these poems were going to bring. She did not set aprice. She would leave that to their own indiscretion, she said inclosing. 

It was midnight before Susan had copied this letter and prepared thetwo 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 heshould be dressed, in fact, and begin to take some exercise. He hadalready sat up in a chair every day for a week--and he was in nofurther need of medicine, except a tonic to build him up. In fact, allefforts 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 wasleaving. She went away at two o'clock, and Mrs. Colebrook was not tocome until half-past five. At one minute past two Susan crept to thedoor of Keith's room and pushed it open softly. The boy, his face tothe wall, lay motionless. But he was not asleep. Susan knew that, forshe had heard his voice not five minutes before, bidding the nursegood-bye. For one brief moment Susan hesitated. Then, briskly, shestepped into the room with a cheery:

"Well, Keith, here we are, just ourselves together. The nurse is gonean' 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. Imean 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' dressedlike folks again. "

The boy gave a sudden cry. 

"That's just it, Susan. Don't you see? I'll never be--like folksagain. "

"Nonsense! Jest as if a little thing like bein' blind was goin' tokeep you from bein' like folks again!" Susan was speaking very loudly, very cheerfully--though with first one hand, then the other, she wasbrushing away the hot tears that were rolling down her cheeks. "Why, Keith, you're goin' to be better than folks--jest common folks. You'regoin' 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 jestwait 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 thatlazy fashion. Come, I'm goin' to get your clothes an' put 'em right onthis chair here by the bed; then I'm goin' to give you twenty minutesto get into 'em. I shan't give you but fifteen tomorrow. " Susan wasmoving swiftly around the room now, opening closet doors and bureaudrawers. 

"No, no, Susan, I can't get up, " moaned the boy turning his face backto the wall. "I can't--I can't!"

"Yes, you can. Now, listen. They're all here, everything you need, onthese 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--butit 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'dnever guess in a million years, so I'm goin' to tell you. For the lastthree mornin's she's tied up her eyes with a handkerchief an' thenDRESSED herself, jest to make sure it COULD be done, you know. "

"Susan, did you, really?" For the first time a faint trace of interestcame into the boy's face. 

"Sure I did! An' Keith, it was great fun, really, jest to see howsmart I could be, doin' it. An' I timed myself, too. It took metwenty-five minutes the first time. Dear, dear, but I was clumsy! ButI can do it lots quicker now, though I don't believe I'll ever do itas 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 youif you ain't. " And without another glance at the boy, and before hecould possibly protest, Susan hurried from the room. 

Her head was still high, and her voice still determinedly clear--butin the hall outside the bedroom, Susan burst into such a storm of sobsthat she had to hurry to the kitchen and shut herself in the pantrylest they be heard. 

Later, when she had scornfully lashed herself into calmness, she cameout into the kitchen and looked at the clock. 

"An' I've been in there five minutes, I'll bet ye, over that fool cryin', " she stormed hotly to herself. "Great one, I am, to take care ofthat boy, if I can't control myself better than this!"

At the end of what she deemed to be twenty minutes, and after afruitless "puttering" about the kitchen, Susan marched determinedlyupstairs to Keith's room. At the door she did hesitate a breathlessminute, then, resolutely, she pushed it open. 

The boy, fully dressed, stood by the bed. His face was alight, almosteager. 

"I did it--I did it, Susan! And if it hasn't been more than twentyminutes, I did it sooner than you!"

Susan tried to speak; but the tears were again chasing each other downher cheeks, and her face was working with emotion. 

"Susan!" The boy put out his hand gropingly, turning his head with thepitiful uncertainty of the blind. "Susan, you are there, aren't you?"

Susan caught her breath chokingly, and strode into the room with abrisk clatter. 

"Here? Sure I'm here--but so dumb with amazement an' admiration that Icouldn't open my head--to see you standin' there all dressed likethat! What did I tell you? I knew you could do it. Now, come, let's gosee 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--hedoesn't want to see me. You know he--he doesn't like to seedisagreeable things. "

"'Disagreeable things, ' indeed!" exploded Susan, her features workingagain. "Well, I guess if he calls it disagreeable to see his sondressed 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 onto 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 endof the veranda Daniel Burton stepped out from a door, and stood for amoment watching them. But it was for only a moment. And when shebegged mutely for him to come forward and speak, he shook his headfiercely, covered his eyes with his hand, and plunged back into thehouse. 

"What was that, Susan? What was that?" demanded the boy. 

"Nothin', child, nothin', only a door shuttin' somewhere, or awindow. "

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 outagain. "

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 voiceagain. 

But Keith, with a tug so imperative that Susan had no choice but toobey, 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! Idon'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 tosee 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 finethings we was goin' to have you do. "

But Keith only shook his head again and complained of feeling, oh, sotired. And Susan, looking at his pale, constrained face, did not quoteany more poetry to him, or talk about the glorious future in store forhim. She led him to the easiest chair in his room and made him ascomfortable as she could. Then she went downstairs and shut herself inthe 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. Shegreeted her brother with a burst of tears. 

"Oh, Daniel, Daniel, how can you stand it--how can you stand it!" shecried, throwing herself upon the man's somewhat unresponsive shoulder. 

"There, there, Nettie, control yourself, do!" besought the manuncomfortably, 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 withobvious impatience to escort her visitor upstairs to her room. 

Susan's terse comment accomplished what Daniel Burton's admonition hadbeen quite powerless to bring about. Mrs. Colebrook stopped sobbing atonce, 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 somebiscuits 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 colorand a muttered "Impertinence!" Mrs. Colebrook turned and followedSusan 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 putdown the bag. "There's a duster in that little bag there. Don't lockthe door. Somethin' ails it. If you do you'll have to go out thewindow down a ladder. There's towels in the top drawer, an' you'llhave to fill the pitcher every day, 'cause there's a crack an' itleaks, an' you can't put in the water only to where the crack is. Isthere anything more you want?"

"Thank you. If you'll kindly take me to Master Keith's room, that willbe all that I require, " answered Mrs. Colebrook frigidly, as sheunpinned 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' dressedto-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, onher knees, was sobbing at the bedside. 

"Oh, Keithie, Keithie, my poor blind boy! What will you do? How willyou ever live? Never to see again, never to see again! Oh, my poorboy, my poor blind boy!"

Susan, at the door, flung both hands above her head, then plunged downthe stairs. 

"Fool! FOOL! FOOL!" she snarled at the biscuits in the oven. "Don'tyou know ANYTHING?" Yet the biscuits in the oven were puffing up andbrowning 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 bemoaningand bewailing the cruel fate that had overtaken "that dear boy, " andhad just asked for the seventh time how he could stand it, when fromthe 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 interruptedsharply. 

"That? Oh, that is Susan's--er--supper bell, " shrugged the man, with alittle uneasy gesture. 

"You mean that you've heard it before?--that that is her usual methodof summoning you to your meals?"

"Y-yes, when she's good-natured, " returned the man, with a still moreuneasy 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'vetried to stop it. "

"TRIED to stop it!"

"Yes. Oh, well, try yourself, if you think it's so easy. I give you myfull 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 ashort, 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. NettieColebrook'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'rehere 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 yourtea 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 mycharge now. "

There was no reply--in words. But the dining-room door after Susanshut 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 MasterKeith 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 heshould 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. Colebrookleft the kitchen. 

Keith did not eat his toast and oatmeal the next morning, though hisaunt 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 anybreakfast. Whereupon his aunt sighed, and stroked his head; and Keithhated 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 seeyou lying there like that, with your poor useless eyes--! But you musteat, dear, you must eat. Now, come, just a weeny, teeny mouthful toplease auntie!"

But Keith turned his face even more determinedly to the wall, andmoved his limbs under the bed clothes in a motion very much like akick. He would have nothing whatever to do with the "weeny, teenymouthfuls, " not even to please auntie. And after a vain attempt toremove his tortured head, entirely away from those gently strokingringers, he said he guessed he would get up and be dressed. 

"Oh, Keithie, are you well enough, dear? Are you sure you are strongenough? I'm sure you must be ill this morning. You haven't eaten a bitof breakfast. And if anything should happen to you when you were in MYcare--"

"Of course I'm well enough, " insisted the boy irritably. 

"Then I'll get your clothes, dear, and help you dress, if you will becareful not to overdo. "

"I don't want any help. "

"Why, Keithie, you'll HAVE to have some one help you. How do yousuppose your poor blind eyes are going to let you dress yourself allalone, when you can't see a thing? Why, dear child, you'll have tohave 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 getup, after all. "

"You ARE too tired, then?"

"Yes, I'm too tired. " And Keith, with another spasmodic jerk under thebedclothes, 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 wasstill to the wall. 

"Then if you're all right, absolutely all right, I'll go out to walkand get a little fresh air. Now don't move. Don't stir. TRY to go tosleep if you can. And if you want anything, just ring. I'll put thislittle bell right by your hand on the bed; and you must ring if youwant 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!" shebroke off suddenly, with a wailing sob. "Why will I keep talking toyou as if you could?"

"Well, I wish you WOULD talk to me as if I could see, " stormed Keithpassionately, sitting upright in bed and flinging out his arms. "Itell you I don't want to be different! It's because I AM differentthat I am so---"

But his aunt, aghast, interrupted him, and pushed him back. 

"Oh, Keithie, darling, lie down! You mustn't thrash yourself aroundlike 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 anymore, and get yourself all worked up again, " she finished, hurryingout 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 breakfasttray. "I have left a bell within reach of his hand, and he will callyou 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 turnedher back and picked up another dish. Plainly, for Susan, the matterwas closed. 

Mrs. Colebrook, after a vexed biting of her lip and a frowning glancetoward Susan's substantial back, shrugged her shoulders and left thekitchen. A minute later, still hatless, she crossed the yard andentered the McGuires' side door. 

"Take the air, indeed!" muttered Susan, watching from the kitchenwindow. "A whole lot of fresh air she'll get in Mis' McGuire'skitchen!"

With another glance to make sure that Mrs. Nettie Colebrook was safelybehind the McGuires' closed door, Susan crossed the kitchen and liftedthe napkin of the breakfast tray. 

"Humph!" she grunted angrily, surveying the almost untouchedbreakfast. "I thought as much! But I was ready for you, my lady. Toastan' oatmeal, indeed!" With another glance over her shoulder at theMcGuire side door Susan strode to the stove and took from the oven aplate of crisply browned hash and a hot corn muffin. Two minuteslater, with a wonderfully appetizing-looking tray, she tapped atKeith'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; "butyou just look an' see what I'VE brought you!"

Look and see! Susan's dismayed face showed that she fully realizedwhat she had said, and that she dreaded beyond words its effect on theblind boy in the bed. 

She hesitated, and almost dropped the tray in her consternation. Butthe 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 hedropped his fingers lightly on the contents of the tray. "And don'tthey 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 wasfiercely 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 comesan' finds me feedin' you red-flannel hash an' johnny-cake! Now I'll beup 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--atsight of the empty plates awaiting her when she went up for the trayat 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 minutesquicker this time, too? I'll get your clothes. "

Halfway back across the room, clothes in hand, she was brought to asudden halt by a peremptory: "What in the world is the meaning ofthis?" 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 theexpression on her face showed that the emphasis on the "Master" wasnot 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, youcan't see now, and--"

"Oh, no, I don't forget, " cut in Keith bitterly. "You don't let meforget 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 backto 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 arenot fit to get up. " Then, to Susan, sharply: "You may put MasterKeith'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 eyesflashed ominously. But she hung the clothes back in the closet, pickedup 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 todinner, there was a curious metallic incisiveness in her voice, whichmade the call more strident than usual. 

It was when Mrs. Colebrook went into the kitchen after dinner forKeith'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, Idon't like it. "

There was a moment's dead silence. The first angry flash in Susan'seyes 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, " repliedMrs. Colebrook, with dignity. 

Once again there was the briefest of silences, then quietly cameSusan'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, foundherself 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 theclothes-yard, had come out, ostensibly to hang out her own clothes, inreality to visit with Susan while she was hanging out hers. 

"About as usual. " Susan snapped out the words and a pillow-case withequal vehemence. 

"Is he up an' dressed?"

"I don't know. I hain't seen him this mornin'--but it's safe to say heain't. "

"But I thought he was well enough to be up an' dressed right alongnow. "

"He is WELL ENOUGH--or, rather he WAS. " Susan snapped open anotherpillow-case and hung it on the line with spiteful jabs of twoclothespins. 

"Why, Susan, is he worse? You didn't say he was any worse. You said hewas 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 worseif you wasn't allowed to do as much as lift your own hand to your ownhead?"

"Why, Susan, what do you mean? What are you talkin' about?"

"I'm talkin' about Keith Burton an' Mis' Nettie Colebrook. I've GOT totalk 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 womanwon't!"

"But how can he do anything for himself, with his poor sightlesseyes?" demanded Mrs. McGuire. "I don't think I should complain, SusanBetts, because that poor boy's got somebody at last to take propercare of him. "

"But it AIN'T takin' proper care of him, not to let him do things forhimself, " stormed Susan hotly. "How's he ever goin' to 'mount toanything--that's what I want to know--if he don't get a chance tobegin to 'mount? All them fellers--them fellers that was blind an'wrote books an' give lecturin's an' made things--perfectly wonderfulthings with their hands--how much do you s'pose they would have doneif they'd had a woman 'round who said, 'Here, let me do it; oh, youmustn't do that, Keithie, dear!' every time they lifted a hand tobrush away a hair that was ticklin' their nose?"

"Oh, Susan!"

"Well, it's so. Look a-here, listen!" Susan dropped all pretense ofwork now, and came close to the fence. She was obviously very much inearnest. "That boy hain't been dressed but twice since that woman camea week ago. She won't let him dress himself alone an' now he don'twant 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' dayout, with his poor sightless eyes turned to the wall. He won't eat athing 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 anyspunk would be. "

"But can he feed himself?"

"Of course he can--if he gets a chance! But that ain't all. He don'twant to be told all the time that he's different from other folks. Hecan't forget that he's blind, of course, but he wants you to act as ifyou forgot it. I know. I've seen him. But she don't forget it aminute--not a minute. She's always cryin' an' wringin' her hands, an'sighin', 'Oh, Keithie, Keithie, my poor boy, my poor blind boy!' tillit'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 boythe comfort of a little sympathy! My John said yesterday--"

"'T ain't sympathy he needs. Sympathy's a nice, soft little paw thatpats him to sleep. What he needs is a good sharp scratch that willmake 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 handswere clenched so tightly on the fence pickets that the knuckles showedwhite with the strain. "Mis' McGuire, there's a chance, maybe, thatthat boy can see. There's somethin' they can do to his eyes, if hegets strong enough to have it done. "

"Really? To see again?"

"Maybe. There's a chance. They ain't sure. But they can't even TRYtill 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 toknow!"

"Hm-m, I see, " nodded Mrs. McGuire soberly. Then, with a sidewiseglance 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 sternefficiency she shook out a heavy sheet and hung it up. Stooping, shepicked up another one. But she did not shake out this. With the samecurious abruptness that had characterized her movements a few momentsbefore, she dropped the sheet back into the basket and came close tothe fence again. "Mis' McGuire, won't you please let me take a copy ofthem two women's magazines that you take? That is, they--they do printpoetry, don't they?"

"Why, y-yes, Susan, I guess they do. Thinkin' of sendin' 'em some ofyours?" The question was asked in a derision that was entirely lost onSusan. 

"Yes, to get some money. " It was the breathless, palpitating Susanthat Daniel Burton had seen a week ago, and like Daniel Burton on thatoccasion, 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 sellthese, I'm goin' to write more--lots more. Only I've got to find aplace, first, of course, to sell 'em. An' I did send 'em off lastweek. But they was jest cheap magazines; an' they sent a letter allprinted 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'msure. They'll have to, to get 'em! Why, Mis' McGuire, I've got to havethe money. There ain't nobody but me TO get it. An' you don't s'posewe're goin' to let that boy stay blind all his life, do you, jest forthe want of a little money?"

'"A little money'! It'll cost a lot of money, an' you know it, SusanBetts, " cried Mrs. McGuire, stirred into sudden speech. "An' the ideaof you tryin' to EARN it writin' poetry. For that matter, the idea ofyour earnin' it, anyway, even if you took your wages. "

"Oh, I'd take my wages in a minute, if--" Susan stopped short. Herface had grown suddenly red. "That is, I--I think I'd rather take thepoetry 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 knowwhat I believe? I believe you don't GET any wages. I don't believethat man pays you a red cent from one week's end to the other. Nowdoes 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. WhatMr. Burton pays me discerns him an' me an' I don't care to discourseit in public. If you'll kindly lend me them magazines I asked you fora minute ago, I'll be very much obliged, an' I'll try to retaliate inthe 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!" ejaculatedMrs. McGuire. "I'd like to shake you--though you don't deserve ashakin', I'll admit. You deserve--well, never mind. I'll get themagazines right away. That's the most I CAN do for you, I s'pose, " sheflung 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 lessthan two weeks when she confronted her brother in the studio with thisterse statement:

"Daniel, either Susan or I leave this house tomorrow morning. You canchoose between us. "

"Nonsense, Nettie, don't be a fool, " frowned the man. "You know verywell that we need both you and Susan. Susan's a trial, I'll admit, ina good many ways; but I'll wager you'd find it more of a trial to getalong 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 Susanand 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'tunderstand 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 myselfaccordingly, 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 havingthat impossible, outrageously impertinent servant girl here than youdo me. " Mrs. Colebrook was nearing the door how. 

"Shucks! You know better than that! Come, come, if you're having anytrouble with Susan, settle it with the girl herself, won't you? Don'tcome to me with it. You KNOW how I dislike anything like this. "

At the door Mrs. Colebrook turned back suddenly with aggressivedetermination. 

"Yes, I do know. You dislike anything that's disagreeable. You alwayshave, from the time when you used to run upstairs to the attic and letus make all the explanations to pa and ma when something got lost orbroken. But, see here, Daniel Burton, you've GOT to pay attention tothis. It's your son, and your house, and your maid. And you shalllisten to me. "

"Well, well, all right, go ahead, " sighed the man despairingly, throwing himself back in his chair. "What is the trouble? What is itthat 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 thefirst place, she's the most wretchedly impertinent creature I everdreamed of. It's always 'Keith' instead of 'Master Keith, ' and Iexpect every day it'll be 'Daniel' and 'Nettie' for you and me. Sheshows no sort of respect or deference in her manner or language, and--well, what are you looking like that for?" she interrupted herselfaggrievedly. 

"I was only thinking--or rather I was TRYING to think of Susan--anddeference, " 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 outrageousbehavior, and that's why she's so impossible in every way. Why, DanielBurton, I've actually heard her refuse--REFUSE to serve you withsomething to eat that you'd ordered. "

"Oh, well, well, what if she has? Very likely there was something wehad to eat up instead, to keep it from spoiling. Susan is veryeconomical, Nettie. "

"I dare say--at times, when it suits her to be so, especially if shecan assert her authority over you. Why, Daniel, she's a perfect tyrantto you, and you know it. She not only tells you what to eat, but whatto 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 socompletely under the sway of this serving-maid? And such a maid!Daniel, will you tell me where she gets those long words of hers thatshe mixes up so absurdly?"

Daniel Burton laughed. 

"Susan lived with Professor Hinkley for ten years before she came tome. The Hinkleys never used words of one or two syllables when theycould find one of five or six that would do just as well. Susan loveslong words. "

"So I should judge. And those ridiculous rhymes of hers--did she learnthose, also, from Professor Hinkley?" queried Mrs. Colebrook. "And asfor 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 DanielBurton, 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 lookedup 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 herwretched impertinence?" demanded Mrs. Colebrook angrily. "I tell you Iwill not stand it! Something has got to be done. Why, she even triesto interfere with the way I take care of your son--presumes to give mecounsel and advice on the subject, if you please. Dares to criticizeme--ME! Daniel Burton, I tell you I will not stand it. You MUST givethat woman her walking papers. Why, Daniel, I shall begin to think shehas hypnotized you--that you're actually afraid of her!"

Was it the scorn in her voice? Or was it that Daniel Burton'sendurance had snapped at this last straw? Whatever it was, the manleaped to his feet, threw back his shoulders, and thrust his handsinto his pockets. 

"Nettie, look here. Once for all let us settle this matter. I tell youI 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 allthese years since--since Keith and I have been alone. But even if Icould set that aside, there's something else I can't overlook. I--Iowe Susan considerable money. "

"You owe her--MONEY?"

"Yes, her wages. She has not had them for some time. I must owe hersomething like fifty or sixty dollars. You see, we--we have had somevery unusual and very heavy expenses, and I have overdrawn my annuity--borrowed on it. Susan knew this and insisted on my letting her wagesgo on, for the present. More than that, she has refused a betterposition with higher wages--I know that. The pictures I had hoped tosell--"He stopped, tried to go on, failed obviously to control hisvoice; then turned away with a gesture more eloquent than any wordscould have been. 

Mrs. Colebrook stared, frowned, and bit her lip. Nervously she tappedher foot on the floor as she watched with annoyed eyes her brothertramping up and down, up and down, the long, narrow room. Thensuddenly her face cleared. 

"Oh, well, that's easily remedied, after all. " She sprang to her feetand hurried from the room. Almost immediately she was back--a roll ofbills in her hand. "There, I thought I had enough money to do it, " sheannounced briskly as she came in. "Now, Daniel, I'LL pay Susan herback wages. "

"Indeed you will not!" The man wheeled sharply, an angry red staininghis cheeks. 

"Oh, but Daniel, don't you see?--that'll simplify everything. She'llbe working for ME, then, and I--"

"But I tell you I won't have--" interrupted the man, then stoppedshort. Susan herself stood in the doorway. 

"I guess likely you was talkin' so loud you didn't hear me call you todinner, " she was saying. "I've called you two times already. If youwant anything fit to eat you'd better come quick. It ain't gettin' anyfitter, waitin'. "

"Susan!" Before Susan could turn away, Mrs. Colebrook detained herperemptorily. " 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 Danielof long ago who fled to the attic, shrugged his shoulders with agesture of utter irresponsibility, turned his back and walked to thefarther side of the room. 

"Susan, " began Mrs. Colebrook again, still blithely, but with just ashade 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 forhim, Susan. In fact, I'm going to pay you sixty dollars, so as to besure 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?" sheasked. 

"Yes. "

"But--" Susan paused and threw a quick glance toward the broad back ofthe 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. Iain'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 useof a little money, I guess. Surely, there's SOMETHING you want. "

With her hand almost on the doorknob Susan suddenly whisked about, herface alight. 

"Oh, yes, yes, I forgot, Mis' Colebrook, " she cried eagerly. "There issomethin' I want; an' I'll take it, please, an' thank you kindly. "

"There, that's better, " nodded Mrs. Colebrook. "And I've got it righthere, 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?--forKeith, I mean. The--" But with sudden sharpness Mrs. Colebrookinterrupted 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 thatyou 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 failedto give satisfaction. You are paid in full now, I believe, with someto spare, perhaps. You may work the week out. After that we shall nolonger require your services. "

The man at the end of the room wheeled sharply and half started tocome forward. Then, with his habitual helpless gesture, he turned backto his old position. 

Susan, her face eloquent with amazed unbelief, turned from one to theother. 

"You mean--you don't mean--Mis' Colebrook, be you tryin' to--dismissalme?"

Mrs. Colebrook flushed and bit her lip. 

"I am dismissing you--yes. "

Once more Susan, in dazed unbelief, looked from one to the other. Hereyes 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 hishands. 

"Of course, I don't want you to go, Susan. But what can I do? I haveno money to pay you, as you know very well. I have no right to keepyou--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 giveback 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. Burtonnow. 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 thatthe money fell to the floor. But at once Susan stooped and picked itup. The next moment she had crossed the room and thrust the money intoMrs. Colebrook's astonished fingers. 

"I don't want your money, Mis' Colebrook--not on them terms, even forKeith. I know I hain't earned any the other way, yet, but I hain'ttried 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 Iwon't take this. Why, Mis' Colebrook, do you think I'd leave NOW, withthat poor boy blind, an' his father so wrought up he don't have evenhis extraordinary common sense about his flannels an' socks an' whatto eat, an' no money to pay the bills with, either? An' him bein'pestered the life out of him with them intermittent, dunnin' grocersan' 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 tolike this?" appealed Mrs. Colebrook. 

"What can I do?" (Was there a ghost of a twinkle in Daniel Burton'seyes as he turned with a shrug and a lift of his eyebrows?) "If YOUhaven't the money to hire her--" But Mrs. Colebrook, with an indignanttoss 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 sohaughty 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 havethat operator on his eyes, unless he takes some exercise an' gets hisstrength back. The nurse an' the doctor--they both said he wouldn't. "

"Yes, yes, I know, Susan, " fumed the man impatiently, beginning topace 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'mall Keith's got to look out for him. " The father of Keith gave aninarticulate gasp, but Susan plunged on unheeding. "An' he'll neverget well if he ain't let to get up an' stand an' walk an' eat an' sitdown himself. But Mis' Colebrook won't let him. She won't let him doanything. She keeps sayin', 'Don't do it, oh, don't do it, ' all thetime, --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 toknock a man down! Mr. Burton, I want you to tell that woman to let metake care of that boy for jest one week--ONE WEEK, an' her not to comenear him with her snivelin' an'--"

But Daniel Burton, with two hands upflung, and a head that ducked asif before an oncoming blow, had rushed from the room. For the secondtime 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 injuredmartyr at breakfast. She told her brother that, of course, if hepreferred to have an ignorant servant girl take care of his poorafflicted son, she had nothing to say; but that certainly he could notexpect HER to stay, too, especially after being insulted as she hadbeen. 

Daniel Burton had remonstrated feebly, shrugged his shoulders andflung 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 wasparticularly "worked up" over something, "jest b'ilin' inside" as sheexpressed it, she always sang this song--her own composition, to thetune 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 thissong, he was in no doubt as to Susan's state of mind--a fact whichcertainly did not add to his own serenity. 

Upstairs, Keith, wearily indifferent as to everything that was takingplace about him, lay motionless as usual, his face turned toward thewall. 

And at ten o'clock Mrs. Colebrook went. Five minutes later DanielBurton entered the kitchen--a proceeding so extraordinary that Susanbroke 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 Itook up. He simply won't eat that oatmeal stuff, an'--"

"No, no, I don't mean the hash, " interrupted the man irritably. "Keithis 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 frankdelight 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 verywell 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 thatblessed boy all to myself with no one to feed him oatmeal mush with aspoon, an' snivel over him. You jest wait. The first elemental thingis to learn him self-defiance, so he can do things for himself. Thenhe'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 othermagazines, a whole lot of 'em, that I hain't tried. Somebody's sure totake 'em some time. "

"I'm glad your courage is still good, Susan; but I'm afraid the dearpublic is going to appreciate your poems about the way it does--mypictures, " shrugged the man bitterly, as he turned and left the room. 

Not waiting to finish setting her kitchen in order, Susan ran up theback 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 lazyboy! Here it is away in the middle of the forenoon, an' you abed likethis!"

But it was not to be so easy this time. Keith was not to be cajoledinto getting up and dressing himself even to beat Susan's record. Steadfastly he resisted all efforts to stir him into interest oraction; and a dismayed, disappointed Susan had to go downstairs inacknowledged 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 abackbone into a jellyfish by jest showin' him the bone--an' that'swhat his aunt has made him--a flappy, transparallel jellyfish. Drather! But I ain't goin' to give up. Not much I ain't!" And Susanattacked the little kitchen stove with a vigor that would have broughtterror to the clinkers of a furnace fire pot. 

Susan did not attempt again that day to get Keith up and dressed; andshe gave him his favorite "pop-overs" for supper with a running fireof merry talk and jingles that contained never a reference to theunpleasant habit of putting on clothes, But the next morning, aftershe had given Keith his breakfast (not of toast and oatmeal) shesuggested blithely that he get up and be dressed. When he refused shetried coaxing, mildly, then more strenuously. When this failed shetried to sting his pride by telling him she did not believe he couldget 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 fellowalone?"

Susan drew a long breath and held it suspended for a moment. She hadthe air of one about to make a dreaded plunge. 

"No, I can't let you alone, Keith, " she replied, voice and manner nowcoldly 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 youthink I hain't got anything to do but trespass up an' down them stairsall day waitin' on you, when you are perfectly capacious of waitin' onyourself SOME. "

"Why, SUSAN!" There was incredulous, hurt amazement in the boy'svoice; 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 gazecarefully turned away from the white face on the pillow. "An' to haveto keep runnin' up here all the mornin' when I've got to do thedishes, an' bake bread, an' make soap, an'--"

"If you'll get my clothes, Susan, I'll get up, " said Keith veryquietly from the bed. 

And Susan, not daring to unclose her lips, wrested the garments fromthe hooks, dropped them on to the chair by the bed, and fled from theroom. But she had not reached the hall below when the sobs shook herframe. 

"An' me talkin' like that when I'd be willin' to walk all day on myhands an' knees, if't would help him one little minute, " she choked. 

Barely had Susan whipped herself into presentable shape again whenKeith's voice at the kitchen door caused her to face about with astartled cry. 

"I'm downstairs, Susan. " The boy's voice challenged hers for coldnessnow. "I'll take my meals down here, after this. "

"Why, Keith, however in the world did you--" Then Susan pulled herselfup. "Good boy, Keith! That WILL make it lots easier, " she saidcheerfully, impersonally, turning away and making a great clatter ofpans 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-roomdoor, where she could watch Keith. She watched him get up and moveslowly along the side of the room, picking his way. She watched himpause and move hesitating fingers down the backs of the chairs that heencountered. But when she saw him stop and finger the books on thelittle table by the window, she crept back to her kitchen--and rattledstill more loudly the pots and pans in the sink. 

Just before the noon meal Keith appeared once more at the kitchendoor. 

"Susan, would it bother you very much if I ate out here--with you?" heasked. 

"With me? Nonsense! You'll eat in the dinin'-room with your dad, ofcourse. 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 boyfeverishly. "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 bedisagreeable to see me. An' you know he never liked disagreeable--"

"Now, Keith Burton, you stop right where you are, " interrupted Susanharshly. "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 washalfway 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 aplace to run, just because you hate to see him feel 'round for what heeats. "

"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 alittle? Let me tell you this, Daniel Burton--that boy has moreconsolation 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 daddidn'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, saidno more. A moment later she had left the room. 

At dinner that day, with red eyes but a vivacious manner, she waitedon a man who incessantly talked of nothing in particular, and a boywho 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 gainedground. Sometimes it was by coaxing, sometimes by scolding; perhapsmost often by taunts and dares, and shrewd appeals to Keith's pride. But by whatever it was, each day saw some stride forward, some newvictory that Keith had won over his blindness, until by the end of theweek the boy could move about the house and wait upon himself with afacility almost unbelievable when one remembered his listlesshelplessness of a week before. 

Then one day there entered into the case a brand-new element, a daintyelement in white muslin and fluttering blue ribbons--Mazie Sanborn andDorothy Parkman. 

"We heard Keithie was lots better and up and dressed now, " chirpedMazie, when Susan answered her ring; "and so we've brought him someflowers. Please can't we see him?"

Susan hesitated. Susan had not forgotten Keith's feverish retreat fromMazie's greeting called up to the veranda the month before. But then, for that matter, had he not retreated from everything until shedeterminedly took him in hand? And he must some time begin to minglewith the world outside the four walls of his house!

Why not now? What better chance could she hope to have for him tobegin than this? Where could she find two more charmingly alluringambassadors of that outside world than right here on the door-stepnow?

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 haveyou come! It'll do him good. Come in, come in!" And with only aheightened color to show her trepidation as to the reception thatmight be accorded her charges, she threw open the sitting-room door. "Well, Keith, here's company come on purpose to see you. An' they'vebrought you some flowers, " she announced gayly. 

"No, no, Susan, I--I don't want to see them, " stammered the boy. Hehad leaped to his feet, a painful red flooding his face. 

"Well, I like that!" bridled Mazie, with playful indignation; "andwhen 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 voicesounded harsh and unnatural. 

"And we brought you these, " interposed Mazie brightly, crossing theroom to his side and holding out the flowers. Then, with a littleembarrassed laugh, as he did not take them, she thrust them into hisfingers. "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'sunresisting fingers. "Here, let me put 'em in water, an' you two sitdown. I always did love coronation pinks, " she declared briskly, asshe left the room. 

She was not gone long. Very quickly she came back, with the flowers ina vase. Keith had dropped back into his chair; but he was plainly sounwilling a host that Susan evidently thought best to assist him. Sheset the vase on a little stand near Keith's chair, then droppedherself on to the huge haircloth sofa near by. 

"My, but I don't mind settin' myself awhile, " she smiled. "Guess I'mtired. "

"I should think you would be. " Mazie, grown suddenly a bit stiff andstilted, was obviously trying to be very polite and "grown up. " "Theremust be an awful lot to do here. Mother says she don't see how youstand 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 forhim now. "

Oh, but there must be a lot of things, " began Mazie, " that he can'tdo, and--"

"Er--what a lovely big, sunny room, " interrupted Dorothy hastily, sohastily that Susan threw a sharp glance into her face to see if shewere really interrupting Mazie for a purpose. "I love big rooms. "

"Yes, so do I, " chimed in Mazie. "And I always wanted to see theinside 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, youknow, and full of rare old things, and there wasn't another for milesaround 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 likethe things father is always getting--only nicer. Now that, right therein the corner, all full of drawers--We've got one almost just exactlylike 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. Iain't sayin' 'tisn't, though I'm free to confess I never heard itcalled that. But it's old enough, if that's all it needs; it's oldenough 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 notslow 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 toKeith 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 agood many of the questions during the next fifteen minutes. Some sheanswered because she did not want Keith to answer them. More sheanswered because Keith would not answer them. To tell the truth, Keithwas anything but a polite, gracious host. He let it be plainlyunderstood that he was neither pleased at the call nor interested inthe conversation. And the only semblance of eagerness in his demeanorthat afternoon was when his young visitors rose to go. 

In spite of Keith's worse than indifference, however, Susan wasconvinced that this call, and others like it, were exactly what wasneeded for Keith's best welfare and development. With all her skilland artifice, therefore, she exerted herself to make up for Keith'snegligence. She told stories, rattled off absurd jingles, and laughedand talked with each young miss in turn, determined to make the callso great a success that the girls would wish to come again. 

When she had bowed them out and closed the door behind them, she cameback to Keith, intending to remonstrate with him for his veryungracious behavior. But before she could open her lips Keith himselfhad 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'THAVE 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 wasspying out. They came to see how I took it. I know 'em. And thatDorothy Parkman--I don't know WHY she came. She said long ago that shecouldn't bear--to look at 'em. "

"Look at them?"

"Yes--blind folks. Her father is a big oculist--doctors eyes, youknow. She told me once. And she said she couldn't bear to look atthem; 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 thecountry. And of course lots of--of blind people go there, and she seesthem. Only she says she can't bear to see them, that she won't look atthem. 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 inher eyes, she had turned toward the kitchen door. 

Two days later, on her way to the store, Susan spied Dorothy Parkmanacross the street. Without hesitation or ceremony she went straightacross and spoke to her. 

"Is it true that your father is a big occultist, one of the biggestthere 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 sleeveand 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? DidI 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 wantedfather, 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 comingto take me home for Christmas. But--he isn't going to stay long. "

"That's all right--that's all right, " retorted Susan, a littlebreathlessly. "If he'd jest look at the boy's eyes an' tell if--if hecould fix 'em later. You see, we--we couldn't have it done now, 'causethere ain't any money to pay. But we'll have it later. We'll sure haveit later, an' then--"

"Of course he'll look at them, " interrupted Dorothy eagerly. "He'lllove 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, suddenlydetermined to tell him all about the wonderful piece of good fortunein store for him. 

"How'd you like to have that little Miss Dorothy's daddy see youreyes, 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 morecoldly; "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 theeager light had died out of Susan's face. 

"I don't care if he is the biggest, he's Dorothy Parkman's father, andthat's enough. I WON'T HAVE HIM!"

"No, no; well, all right!" And Susan, terrified and dismayed, hurriedfrom the room. 

But though Susan was dismayed and terrified, she was far from beingsubdued. In the kitchen she lifted her chin defiantly. 

"All right, Master Keith, " she muttered to herself. "You can say whatyou want to, but you'll have him jest the same--only you won't knowhe'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 Parkmanbusiness. But 'tain't till Christmas, an' that's 'most two months offyet. Time enough for trouble when trouble knocks at the door; an' tillit 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 accomplishingone task than she set for him another. No sooner could he pilothimself about one room than she inveigled him into another. And whenhe could go everywhere about the house she coaxed him out into theyard. It was harder here, for Keith had a morbid fear of being staredat. 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 doneall 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. "Imean 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 withhim. 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 ofdifference between leadin' an' accommodatin'. We don't none of us liketo be led, but we don't mind goin' WITH folks 'most anywheres. Putyour arm into his an' walk together. He'll walk that way. I've triedit. An' to see him you wouldn't know he was blind at all. Oh, yes, Iknow you're hangin' back an' don't want to. I know you hate to see himor be with him, 'cause it makes you KNOW what a terrible thing it isthat'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 feedhis stomach an' make him do the metaphysical things, but it's youthat'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 hislips, but there were tears in his eyes. 

"Well, it's so, " argued Susan earnestly. "Oh, I read to him, ofcourse. I read him everything I can get hold of, especially about menan' women that have become great an' famous an' extinguished, even ifthey was blind or deaf an' dumb, or lame--especially blind. But Ican't learn him books, Mr. Burton. You've got to do that. You've gotto 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 topaint bigger an' grander pictures than you ever did before, only youwon't be paintin' 'em on canvas backs. You'll be paintin' 'em on thatboy'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 spokeunsteadily, huskily, now. 

"I don't know about that, but I do know that them pictures you'regoin' 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 backhis 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' stronghe could have somethin' done. I've got the doctor, an' all I need nowis the money. An'--an' that makes me think. " She hesitated, growingsuddenly pink and embarrassed. Then resolutely she put her hand intothe 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 itnow, " she explained. "You know, them--them other poems didn't sellmuch--there was only one went, an' the man wouldn't take that tillhe'd made me promise he could print my letter, too, that I'd wrotewith it--jest as if that was worth anything!--but he only paid ameasly dollar anyhow. "Susan's voice faltered a little, though herchin was at a brave tilt. "An' I guess now I know the reason. Themkind 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'vewrote some of 'em. They're real easy to do--jest lines chopped offfree 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 ofpretty, I think, too, jest the same. Them denatured poems are alwayspretty, I think--about trees an' grass an' flowers an' the sky, youknow. 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 socommon. You see 'em everywhere, you know. But I thought I would tryit--'twould be different, anyhow, in this new kind of verses. So Iwrote 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 onhis feet now, his back carefully turned. 

"No, not yet; but I'm goin' to pretty quick, an' I guess them willsell. " Susan nodded happily, and smiled. But almost instantly her facegrew gravely earnest again. "But all the money in the world ain'tgoin' to do no good Mr. Burton, unless we do our part, an' our part isto get him well an' strong for that operator. Now I'm goin' to sendKeith in to you. I ain't goin' to TELL him he's goin' to walk withyou, 'cause if I did he wouldn't come. But I'm expectin' you to takehim, jest the same, " she finished severely, as she left the room. 

Keith and his father went to walk. It was the first of many suchwalks. Almost every one of these crisp November days found the two offon a tramp somewhere. And because Daniel Burton was careful always toaccompany, never to lead, the boy's step gained day by day inconfidence 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, hadbeen 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 totake the place of the picture sent away. Daniel Burton had begun nonew picture. The easel, indeed, was turned face to the wall. And yetDaniel Burton was painting pictures, wonderful pictures. His brusheswere words, his colors were the blue and gold and brown and crimson ofthe wide autumn landscape, his inspiration was the hungry light on aboy's face, and his canvas was the soul of the boy behind it. Mostassuredly Daniel Burton was giving himself now, heart and mind andbody, to his son. Even the lynx-eyed, alert Susan had no fault tofind. 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, colonialdoorway. 

Dorothy had not seen Keith, except on the street, since her visit withMazie in October. Two or three times the girls had gone to the housewith flowers or fruit, but Keith had stubbornly refused to see them, in spite of Susan's urgings. To-day Dorothy, with this evidently inmind, refused Susan's somewhat dubious invitation to come in. 

"Oh, no, thank you, I'll not come in, " she smiled. "I only broughtfather, that's all. And--oh, I do hope he can do something, " shefaltered unsteadily. And Susan saw that her eyes were glistening withtears 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 herclasp on his arm. "Ain't you Dorothy Parkman's father?"

"I'm her stepfather. She was nine when I married Mrs. Parkman, hermother. "

"Then your name ain't Parkman, at all! Oh, glory be!" ejaculated Susanecstatically. "Well, if that ain't the luckiest thing ever!"

"Lucky?" frowned the doctor, looking thoroughly mystified, and notaltogether pleased. 

Susan gave an embarrassed laugh. 

"There, now, if that ain't jest like me, to fly off on a tandem likethat, without a word of exploitation. It's jest that I'm so glad Iwon'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 drawhimself away from Susan's detaining fingers. 

"Oh, please, doctor, please, don't be mad!" Susan had both hands holdof his arm now. "'Twas for Keith, an' I knew you'd be willin' to doanything for him, when you understood, jest as I am. You see, I didn'twant him to know you was Dorothy's father, " she plunged onbreathlessly, "an' so I was goin' to ask you to let me call yousomethin' else--not Parkman. An' then, when I found that you didn'thave to have a resumed name, that you was already somebody else--thatis, that you was really you, only Keith wouldn't know you was you, Iwas so glad. "

"Oh, I see. " The doctor was still frowning, though his lips weretwitching 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, hewouldn'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 verycareful not to let the boy know I ever heard of Dorothy Parkman. Howabout the boy's father? Does he--know?"

"Yes, sir. I told him who you was, an' that you was comin'; an' I toldhim 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 inhis 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 GOTto 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' hewanted ME to find out what you said. But I told him HE'D got to dothat. 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 throughthe sittin'-room. "

"By Jove, what a beauty!" Halfway across the living-room the doctorhad come to a pause before the mahogany highboy. 

"THAT?"

"Yes, 'that'!" The whimsical smile in the doctor's eyes showed that hewas not unappreciative of the scorn in Susan's voice. "By George, itIS 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, Isee, " he finished, his admiring gaze roving about the room. "We've gotsome newer, better stuff in the parlor. These are awful old things inhere, " apologized Susan. 

"Yes, I see they are--old things. " The whimsical smile had come backto 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'sMr. Burton won't hear. He asked me to. He didn't want to know jestexactly 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 folkshurt, " answered the literal Susan cheerfully. "But he'll see you allright, when it's over. " Her lips came together with a sudden grimness. 

The next moment, throwing open Keith's door, her whole expressionchanged. She had eyes and thoughts but for the blind boy over by thewindow. 

The doctor, too, obviously, by the keen, professional alertness thattransfigured his face at that moment, had eyes and thoughts but forthat 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. "Hewas 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 thedoctor. "An' when--when you're done, sir, if you'll jest come downthem 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 talkedwith Mr. Burton, and had gone, Susan went to get those potatoes toboil for dinner, she found that all but two of them had been peeledand peeled and peeled, until there was nothing left but--peelings. 

Susan was peeling the next to the last potato when the doctor camedown to the kitchen. 

"Well?" She was on her feet instantly. 

The doctor's face was grave, yet his eyes were curiously alight. Theyseemed 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 ofhis 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 raredisease, 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'ssuccessful or not. They've just about broken even so far--the casesI've known about. But they've been interesting, most interesting. " Thedoctor 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 preoccupiedface, then hurried on again feverishly. 

"Doctor, there's somethin' I've got to--to speak to you about beforeyou 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 loudervoice. 

"Eh? What? Cost? Oh, yes, yes; it is an expensive operation. " Thedoctor spoke unconcernedly. He merely glanced at Susan, then resumedhis fixed gaze into space. 

"Well, doctor. " Susan cleared her throat again. This time she caughthold of the doctor's sleeve as if to pull him bodily back to arealizing 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 gotany. He's already spent more'n he's got--part of next year's annual, Imean. 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 jestnaturally stop walkin' some day--though I'm free to confess she haslost 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--inHeaven, I mean. But 'course I don't say so to him. An' as I saidbefore, 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 WASgoin' 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--forthe after-treatment, you know. And we must have him where we can watchhim, 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 thestrain. "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 sendMr. Burton to his sister's, then I'll come to you, an' I'll comeimpaired to stay till I've paid it up--every cent. "

"Good Heavens, woman!" ejaculated the man. "What are you talkingabout?"

"Oh, please, please don't say that I can't, " besought Susan, herfearful eyes on his perturbed face. "I'll work real well--truly Iwill. 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' Iwon'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 waythere is to p-pay. " Her voice choked into silence. Susan turned herback 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 doctorpulled himself up short. Thrusting his hands into his pockets he tooka nervous turn about the kitchen; then sharply he wheeled about. "Mydear woman, let us talk no more about the money question. See here, Ishall be glad to take that boy into my charge and take care of him forthe 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 Susancoldly. "Maybe it is infinitesimal to you whether we pay or not, but'tain't to us. We don't want--"

"But I tell you it's pay enough just to do it, " interrupted the doctorimpatiently. "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 withrumpled 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 cantalk sense. "This last was added under his breath; but Daniel Burtonwas 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 atonce into his story. 

"Without going into technical terms, Mr. Burton, I will say that yourson has a very rare trouble. There is only one known relief, and thatis a certain very delicate operation. Even with that, the chances areabout 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. Itis the only thing possible, and, if it fails--well, he'll only beblind, as he is now. It must be done right away, however. Even now itmay be too late. And I may as well tell you, if it DOESN'T fail--thereis a strong probability of another long period of treatment and asecond operation, before there's a chance of ultimate success!"

"Could--could that time be spent here?" Daniel Burton's lips had growna 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 yourpermission I will take the boy back with me next week to Chicago, andoperate at once. And let me say that from sheer interest in the case Ishall be glad to do this entirely without cost to you. "

"Thank you; but of course you must understand that I could not allowthat for a moment. " A painful color had flamed into Daniel Burton'sface. 

"Nonsense! Don't be foolish, man. I tell you I'm glad to do it. It'llbe worth it to me--the rarity of the case--"

"How much--would it cost?" interposed Daniel Burton peremptorily, withan unsteadiness of voice that the doctor did not fail to read aright. 

"Why, man, alive, it would cost--" With his eyes on Daniel Burton'ssternly controlled face, the doctor came to an abrupt pause. Then, turning, he began to tramp up and down the room angrily. "Oh, hang itall, 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 abruptpause. He was standing before an old colonial mirror. Then suddenly hewheeled about. "By Jove, there IS something I want. If you'll sell metwo or three of these treasures of yours here, you will be more thancancelling your debt, and--"

"Thank you, " interrupted the other coldly, but with a still deeper redstaining his face. "As I happen to know of the unsalability of thesepictures, however, I cannot accept your generosity there, either. "

"Pictures!" The doctor, turning puzzled eyes back to the mirror, sawnow that a large oil painting hung beside it on the wall. "I wasn'ttalking about your pictures, man, " he scoffed then. "I was looking atthat mirror there, and I'd like the highboy downstairs, if I couldpersuade you to part with them, and--WOULD you be willing to part withthem?"

"What do you think!" (So marvelous was the change, and so great wasthe shining glory in Daniel Burton's face, that the doctor caughthimself actually blinking. ) "Do you think there's anything, ANYTHINGthat I wouldn't part with, if I thought I could give that boy achance? 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 theyare--valuable. But I shall have to confess I DON'T know very muchabout it. They're very old, I can vouch for that. "

"Old! Humph!" The doctor was close to the mirror now, examining itwith the appreciative eyes of the real lover of the antique. "I shouldsay they were. Jove, that's a beauty! And I've got just the placethat's hungering for it. "

"Good! Suppose we look about the house, then, a little, " suggestedDaniel Burton. "Perhaps we'll find some more things--er--good for ahungry stomach, eh?" And with a light on his face such as had not beenthere 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. Keithwill live at the sanatorium connected with the doctor's home and beunder 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; rememberthat, " warned the man, his face clouding a little. "We can only--hope. "

"An' there's the--the pay. " Susan looked up, her voice vibrating withfearful doubts. 

"Oh, that's all right. " The man lifted his head with the air of onewho at last has reached firm ground after a dangerous crossing on thinice. "The doctor's going to buy the highboy and that mirror in thestudio, and--oh, several other things. "

"You mean that old chest of drawers in the settin'-room?" scornedSusan 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 realnice bedstead, an' a red-plush parlor set, an' she sold 'em. But shedidn't get anything--not hardly anything, for 'em; an' they was 'mostnew, some of 'em, too. "

"That's the trouble, Susan--they were too new, probably, " laughed theman. "It's because these are old, very old, that he wants them, Isuspect. 

"An' he'll really pay MONEY for 'em?" Plainly Susan still had herdoubts. 

"He certainly will. I'd be almost ashamed to tell you HOW much he'llpay, Susan, " smiled the man. "It seemed to me sheer robbery on mypart. But he assures me they are very valuable, and that he's morethan delighted to have them even at that price. "

"Lan' sakes! An' when I'd been worryin' an' worryin' so about themoney, " sighed Susan; "an' now to have it fall plump into your laplike that. It jest shows you not to hunt for bridges till you get yourfeet 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 almostbounced 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 herfather for the Christmas vacation, " shrugged the man. "As I understandit, Dorothy's mother died several years ago. That's why the girl ishere in the East so much with her relatives, going to school. Thedoctor's home has become practically a sanatorium--not the mostdesirable place in the world to bring up a young daughter in, I shouldsay. 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 helpourselves very well. I fancy Miss Dorothy'll still--tag along, " hefinished 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 wasrunning "down street" every hour or two--ostensibly on errands, yetshe bought little. She spent most of her time tramping through thestreets and stores, scrutinizing especially the face of every younggirl she met. 

On the afternoon of the second day she met Dorothy Parkman coming outof the post-office. 

"Well, I've got you at last, " she sighed, "though I'm free to confessI 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 anythingfor 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 thistime. "

"Don't go home--with--my father!" exclaimed the girl, in puzzledwonder. 

"No. Because if you do--That is--Oh, I know it's awful for me to saythis, but I've got to do it for Keith. You see, if you go, --Keithwon't. "

"If I go, he--I don't think--I quite understand. " The girl drew back alittle haughtily. Her face showed a painful flush. 

"No, no, of course you don't! An' please, PLEASE don't look likethat, " begged Susan. "It's jest this. I found out. I wormed it out ofhim the other day--why he won't let you come to see him. He says thatonce, long ago, you said how you couldn't bear to look at blindpeople, an'--"

"Oh, I never, never could have said such a cruel thing to--to a blindboy, " 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 atthe foot of Harrington Hill, one day. It was just after the old manhad got blind, an' Keith had been up to see him. It seems that Keithwas 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 hesee 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 wasblind. That YOU couldn't. An' he never forgot it. Bein' worried forfear he himself was goin' blind, you see, he was especially acceptableto anything like that. "

"Oh, but I--I--At home I always did hate to see all the poor blindpeople that came to see father, " she stammered. "But it--it was onlybecause I felt so bad--for them. And that's one reason why fatherdoesn't keep me at home any more. He says--But, about Keith--I--Ididn't mean to--" Dorothy came to a helpless pause. 

"Yes, I know. You didn't mean to hurt him, " nodded Susan. "But it didhurt 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 havefolks think he's different. There ain't anything I can ever say to himthat 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 justcounting on my being there Christmas, and he is so lonely--I couldn'tdisappoint 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 patientstaking notions. It'll be all right. Don't worry, " she nodded, her faceclearing. 

"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'sdaughter. Don't you see?"

"But--he'll know your voice. "

"I shan't talk much. Besides, he never did hear me talk much. It wasalways Mazie that talked most. And he hasn't heard me any for a yearor 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'tbe anybody else with us on the journey. Don't you worry. You just sendKeith right along, and trust me for the rest. You'll see, " she noddedagain brightly, as she turned away. 

Susan went home then to her neglected work. There seemed reallynothing else that she could do. But that she was far from followingMiss Dorothy's blithe advice "not to worry" was very evident from herfrowning brow and preoccupied air all the rest of the time untilTuesday morning when Keith went--until, indeed, Mr. Burton came homefrom seeing Keith off on his journey. Then her pent-up perturbationculminated in an onslaught of precipitate questions. 

"Was he all right? Was that girl there? Did he know who she was? Doyou think he'll find out?"

"One at a time, Susan, one at a time, " laughed the man. "Yes, he wasall right. He went off smiling, with the doctor's arm about hisshoulders. Yes, the young lady was there, but she kept well away fromKeith, so far as I could see. Friends had come evidently to see heroff, but I noticed she contrived to keep herself and them as far awayfrom Keith as possible. Of course, on the journey there'll be just thethree 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 howthings are!" she finished, as she took up her work again. 

Thirty-six hours later came the telegram from the doctor telling oftheir safe arrival, and a week later came a letter from Keith himselfto Susan. It was written in lead-pencil on paper that had beencarefully 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 orthe whole of this letter. I was afraid I wouldn't write very well andthat he wouldn't like to see it. So I write to you instead. I know youwon't mind. 

Below came the letter. 

DEAR SUSAN: How do you and dad do? I am well and hope you are thesame. 

This is an awfully pretty place with trees and big lawns all aroundit, and walks and seats everywhere in the summer, they say. We aren'tsitting outdoors to-day, though. It's only four below!

We had a jolly trip out. The doctor's great. He spent half his timetalking to me about the things we were seeing out the window. We wentthrough a wonderful country, and saw lots of interesting things. 

The doctor's daughter was along, too. But she didn't have much to sayon 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. Itwas her voice, I guess. It reminded me of somebody I didn't like to bereminded of. But after I got used to it I found she was really verynice and jolly. She knows lots of games, and we play together a lotnow. She's so different from that girl she sounded like that I don'tmind her voice now. And I don't think she minds (here a ratherunsuccessful erasure showed that "playing with me" had beensubstituted for "being with blind folks"). 

She gave me this paper, and told me the folks at home would like aletter, she knew. That's why I'm writing it. And I guess that's enoughfor this time. 

Love to all. KEITH BURTON

P. S. I'm going to have the operation to-morrow, but they won't knowfor 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 itagain 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 aboutnothin' else but himself an' his treatment, all the way through. Oh, Iknow he didn't say anything about his occultist treatment, if that'swhat you mean. But I didn't do no worryin' about that part. It was theother 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 whathe 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' aboutKeith. An' her fixin' that paper so cute for him to write on--Ideclare 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 beenperformed and, so far as they could judge, all was well, though, asKeith had written, the real results would not show until the bandageswere removed some time later. 

When the schools opened again in January, Dorothy Parkman came back toHinsdale. Susan had been counting the days ever since Christmas, forshe knew Dorothy was coming, and she could scarcely wait to see her. This time, however, she did not have to tramp through the streets andstores looking for her, for Miss Dorothy came at once to the house andrang the bell. 

"I knew you'd want to hear all about Mr. Keith, " she smiled brightlyinto 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 Susanexcitedly, leading the way to the sitting-room. 

"Oh, no--no--not that!" cried the girl quickly. "I mean--he's doingall 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 tobe another one--later--father says--maybe two more. "

"Oh!" Susan fell back, plainly disappointed. Then, suddenly, a newinterest 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 shewas. 

"No. Though I must confess that at first, when he heard my voice, helooked up much startled, and even rose from his seat. But I told himlots of folks thought I talked like Dorothy Parkman; and I justlaughed and turned it off, and made nothing of it. And so pretty quickhe made nothing of it, too. After that we got along beautifully. "

"I should say you did!" retorted Susan, almost enviously. "An' youfixin' up that paper so fine for him to write on!"

Miss Dorothy blushed again--and again Susan noticed how very charmingwas the combination of brown eyes and yellow-gold hair. 

"Yes, he did like that paper, " smiled the young girl. "He nevermentioned the lines, and neither did I. When I first suggested theletter home he was all ready to refuse, I could see; but I wouldn'tgive him the chance. Before he could even speak I had thrust the paperinto his hands, and I could see the wonder, interest, and joy in hisface as his fingers discovered the pricked lines and followed theircourse 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 allhe 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 notblind. Then father told me the same thing. He said lots of hispatients were like that. So I always tried to do it that way. And it'swonderful how, when you give it a little thought, you can manage totell 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 grewunsteady--"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 toodisappointed if--if we lose. You must remember that fully half of thecases 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, " shesaid. 

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 hishand 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 besure, but unmistakably. He was well and happy. Meanwhile he was undertreatment for the second operation to come later. But that could notbe 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 alittle 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 knewenough not to talk. 

Then came the days when there were only Keith's letters and anoccasional short note from the doctor to break the long months ofwaiting. 

In the Burton homestead at Hinsdale, living was reduced to thesimplest formula possible. On the whole, there was perhaps a littlemore money. Dunning tradesmen were not so numerous. But all luxuries, and some things that were almost necessities, were rigorously leftout. And the money was saved always--for Keith. A lodger, a young lawstudent, in Keith's old room helped toward defraying the familyexpenses. 

Susan had given up trying to sell her "poems. " She had becomeconvinced at last that a cruel and unappreciative editorial wall wasforever to bar her from what she still believed was an eagerlyawaiting public. She still occasionally wrote jingles and talked inrhyme; but undeniably she had lost her courage and her enthusiasm. Asshe expressed it to Mrs. McGuire, she did not feel "a mite like agushing siphon inside her now. "

As the summer came and passed, Susan and Mrs. McGuire talked over theback-yard fence even more frequently. Perhaps because Susan was lonelywithout 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, whichmeant that the operation must be postponed for perhaps several monthslonger. 

All this Susan talked over with Mrs. McGuire; and there was always, too, the hushed discussion as to what would happen if, after all, itfailed, and Keith came home hopelessly blind. 

"But even that ain't the worst thing that could happen, " maintainedSusan stoutly. "I can tell you Keith Burton ain't goin' to let alittle thing like that floor him!"

Mrs. McGuire, however, did not echo Susan's optimistic prophecies. ButMrs. McGuire's own sky just now was overcast, which perhaps hadsomething to do with it. Mrs. McGuire had troubles of her own. 

It was the summer of 1914, and the never-to-be-forgotten August hadcome and passed, firing the match that was destined to set the wholeworld ablaze. Mrs. McGuire's eldest son John--of whom she boasted inseason and out and whom she loved with an all-absorbing passion--hadcaught the war-fever, gone to Canada, and enlisted. Mrs. McGuireherself 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 wasof her soldier boy, his going had plunged her into an abyss of doubtand 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 allover with 'fore he gets there, anyhow. An' as for feelin' it in yourbones, Mis' McGuire, that's a very facetious doctrine, an' ain't nomore to be depended upon than my flour sieve for an umbrella. They'regay receivers every time--bones are. Why, lan' sakes, Mis' McGuire, ifall things happened that my bones told me was goin' to happen, therewouldn't none of us be livin' by now, nor the sun shinin', nor themoon moonin'. I found out, after awhile, how they DIDN'T happen halfthe 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 ofJohn, my John, lyin' there so cold an' still--"

"Well, he ain't lyin' there yet, " cut in Susan impatiently. "Timeenough to hunt bears when you see their tracks. Mis' McGuire, CAN'Tyou see that worryin' don't do no good? You'll have it ALL fornothin', if he don't get hurt; an' if he does, you'll have all thisextra 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 aview 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 isso--well, you don't know my John. Nobody knows John as I do. He'd havemade 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'thave to begin to write his obliquity notice yet, do you?"

"But he is dead, " moaned Mrs. McGuire, catching at the one word inSusan's remark and paying no attention to the rest. "He's dead toeverything he was goin' to do. He was ambitious, --my John was. He wasalways studyin' and readin' books nights an' Sundays an' holidays, when he didn't have to be in the store. He was takin' a course, youknow. "

"Yes, I know--one of them respondin' schools, " nodded Susan. "John's aclever lad, he is, I'm free to confess. "

Under the sunshine of Susan's appreciation Mrs. McGuire drew a stepnearer. 

"He was studyin' so he could 'mount to somethin'--John was, " declaredMrs. McGuire. "He was goin' to be"--she paused and threw a hurriedlook over her shoulder--"he was keepin' it secret, but he won't mindmy 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. Nowthat the secret was out, Mrs. McGuire was troubled evidently withqualms of conscience. "He never said much. He didn't want it talkedabout. "

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, hadhastened into the house. 

Mrs. McGuire was not the only one with whom Susan was having longtalks. 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'sopinion. She had been again to her father's home; and Susan nevercould hear enough of her visit or of Keith. Nor was Miss Dorothyevidently in the least loath to talk of her visit--or of Keith. Patiently, even interestedly, each time she saw Susan, she wouldrepeat for her the details of Keith's daily life, telling everythingthat she knew about him. 

"But I've told you all there is, before, " she said laughingly one dayat 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 Ialways 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 playedtogether. "

"Didn't I?" An added color came into Miss Dorothy's cheeks. "Well, weplayed them quite a lot. Poor fellow! Time hung pretty heavily on hishands, 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'tsee?"

"Oh, the points of the dominoes are raised, of course, and the boardhas little round places surrounded by raised borders for him to keephis dominoes in. The cards are marked with little raised signs in thecorners, and there are dice studded with tiny nailheads. The checker-board has little grooves to keep the men from sliding. Of course, wealready had all these games, you know. They use them for all father'spatients. 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 MissDorothy'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 abroad smile. 

"Lan' sakes, if that ain't the limit!" she chuckled. 

"Well, what do you mean by that?" bridled Miss Dorothy, looking notexactly 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. Thenshe laughed lightly. "After all, do you know?--I hardly ever thoughtof 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 goingall 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 tohopin' he won't never find out who you really be!"

"Is he so very bitter, then, against--Dorothy Parkman?" The girl askedthe question a little wistfully. 

"He jest is, " nodded Susan with unflattering emphasis. "If you'd heardhim when he jest persisted that he wouldn't have anybody that wasDorothy 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--Imean, when he first told us about you. He said the doctor had adaughter, an' she was all right; but he didn't like her at all atfirst, 'cause her voice kept remindin' him of somebody he didn't wantto be reminded of. "

"Did he really write--THAT?"

"Them's the identifyin' words, " avowed Susan. "So you'll jest have tokeep it secret who you be, you see, " she warned her. 

"Yes, I--see, " murmured the girl. All the pretty color had quite gonefrom 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, MissDorothy, he IS going to get it back, ain't he?" Susan's own face nowhad 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 MissDorothy's arm in a vise-like grip. 

"No, no, not that; but we aren't--SURE. And--and the symptoms aren'tquite 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, andnow"--the girl stopped and wet her lips--"there's to be a secondoperation, 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'tthat 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 hersentence unfinished. 

"Well, we ain't goin' to think of it till it comes" declared Susanstoutly. "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 thistime she turned quite away and went on down the street, leaving Susanby the gate alone. 

"Nice girl, an' a mighty pretty one, too, " whispered Susan, lookingafter 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 thatpoor boy's bein'--"

Susan stopped short. A new look had come to her face--a look ofwonder, questioning, and dawning delight. "Lan' sakes, why hain't Inever thought of that before?" she muttered, her eyes still on therapidly disappearing little red figure down the street. "Oh, 'coursethey're nothin' but babies now, but by an' by--! Still, if he everfound out she was Dorothy Parkman, an' of course he'd have to find itout if he married--Oh, lan' sakes, what fools some folks be!"

With which somewhat cryptic statement Susan turned and marchedirritably into the house. 

CHAPTER XVII

DANIEL BURTON TAKES THE PLUNGE

Dr. Stewart's second operation on Keith's eyes took place late inNovember. It was not a success. Far from increasing his vision, itlessened it. Only dimly now could he discern light at all. 

In a letter to Daniel Burton, Dr. Stewart stated the case freely andfrankly, yet he declared that he had not given up hope--yet. He had aplan which, with Mr. Burton's kind permission, he would carry out. Hethen 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 overnow, however, as war conditions were, would, of course, be difficultand hazardous. Besides, as he happened to know, this would not benecessary, for the great man was coming to this country some time inMay. To bring Keith to his attention then would be a simple matter, and a chance well worth waiting for. Meanwhile, the boy was ascomfortable where he was as he could be anywhere, and, moreover, therewere certain treatments which should still be continued. With DanielBurton's kind permission, therefore, the doctor would keep Keith wherehe was for the present, pending the arrival of the great specialist. 

It was a bitter blow. For days after the letter came, Daniel Burtonshut himself up in his studio refusing to see any one but Susan, andalmost refusing to see her. Susan, indeed, heart-broken as she washerself, had no time to indulge her own grief, so busy was she tryingto concoct something that would tempt her employer to break a fastthat was becoming terrifying to her. 

Then came Keith's letter. He wrote cheerfully, hopefully. He told ofnew games that he was playing, new things of interest that he was"seeing. " He said nothing whatever about the operation. He did saythat 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 thesecond operation, Susan had read it and accepted it with sternlycontrolled eyes that did not shed one tear. But when Keith's lettercame, not even mentioning the operation, her self-control snapped, andshe burst openly into tears. 

"I don't care, " she sobbed, in answer to Daniel Burton's amazedexclamation. "When I think of the way that blessed boy is holdin' uphis 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 andhurrying from the room. 

In December Dr. Stewart came on again to take his daughter back forthe holidays. He called at once to see Mr. Burton, and the two had along conference in the studio, while Susan feverishly moved from roomto room downstairs, taking up and setting down one object afteranother in the aimless fashion of one whose fingers are not controlledby the mind. 

When the doctor had gone, Susan did not wait for Daniel Burton to seekher out. She went at once to the studio. 

"No, he had nothing new to say about Keith, " began the man, answeringthe agonized question in her eyes before her lips could frame thewords. 

"But didn't he say NOTHIN'?"

"Oh, yes, he said a great deal--but it was only a repetition of whathe had said before in the letter. " Daniel Burton spoke wearily, constrainedly. His face had grown a little white. "The doctor boughtthe big sofa in the hall downstairs, and the dropleaf table in thedining-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 noteof respect into Susan's manner as sudden as it was unusual. 

"I've been intending to tell you for some time. I--I shall wantbreakfast at seven o'clock to-morrow morning. I--I am going to work inMcGuire's store. "

"You are goin' to--what?" Susan's face was aghast. 

"To work, I said, " repeated Daniel Burton sharply. "I shall wantbreakfast at seven o'clock, Susan. " He turned away plainly indicatingthat 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!" shegasped;--"an artistical gentleman like you! Why, I'd rather work myhands 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. Butbarely had she finished reading the letter aloud, when the real objectof 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'tknow what you're inferrin' to. But jest let me tell you this: it don'tmake no difference how many potatoes an' molasses jugs an' kerosenecans Daniel Burton hands over the counter he won't never be jest acommon storekeeper. He'll be THINKIN' flowers an' woods an' sunsetsjest the same. Furthermore an' moreover, in my opinion it's a veryhonorary an' praiseful thing for him to do, to go out in the hedgesan' byways an' earn money like that, when, if the world only knewenough to know a good thing when they see it, they'd be buy in' thempictures 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 getstarted!" ejaculated Mrs. McGuire impatiently, yet laughingly. "An' Imight have known what you'd say, too, if I'd stopped to think. Well, Imust be goin', anyhow. I only came over to show you the letter from myJohn. I'm sure I wish't was him comin' back to his old place behindthe counter instead of your Daniel Burton, " she sighed. "I'd buy everypicture he ever painted (if I had the money), if 't would only bringmy John back, away from all those awful bombs an' shells an' shrapnelthat he's always writin' about. "

"Them be nice letters he writes, I'm free to confess, " commented Susangraciously. "Not that they tell so much what he's doin', though; but Is'pose they're censured, anyhow--all them letters be. "

Mrs. McGuire, her eyes dreamily fixed out the window, nodded her headslowly. 

"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 withmy John. Let him go downtown an' come back--you'd think he'd been tothe 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 'emmyself! I'll never forget. One day he went to a fire. The old Babcockhouse burned, an' he saw it. He was twelve years old. I was sick inbed, an' he told me about it. I can see him now, standin' at the footof the bed, his cheeks red, his eyes sparklin' an' his little handsflourishin' right an' left in his excitement. As he talked, I couldjust see that old house burn. I could hear the shouts of the men, theroar an' cracklin' of the flames, an' see 'em creepin', creepin', gainin', gainin'-! Oh, it was wonderful--an' there I was right in myown bed, all the time. It was just the way he told it. That's why Iknow he could have been a writer. He could make others see--everything. But now--that's all over now. He'll never be--anything. Ican see him. I can see all that horrible battle-field with the reelin'men, the flames, the smoke, the burstin' shells, an', oh, God--myJohn! Will he ever, ever come back--to me?"

"There, there, Mis' McGuire, I jest wouldn't--" But Mrs. McGuire, witha shake of her head, and her eyes half covered with her hand, turnedaway 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 toworry, " she muttered severely to herself, attacking the piled-updishes before her. 

Daniel Burton went to work in McGuire's grocery store the nextmorning, after a particularly appetizing breakfast served to him by asilent, 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 stairsat eight o'clock that morning. "An' if you want to see a realslaughter-house, you jest come in here, " she beckoned him, leading theway to the studio. 

"But--but--that is--well--" stammered the young fellow, looking not alittle 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 jestany extraordinary common-sense room now, that anybody might have, withthem pictures all put away, an' his easel hid behind the door, an' nota 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' madeup a poem on it. I couldn't help it. An' it came easy, too--'most likethe spontaneous combustion kind that I used to write, only I made itfree verse. You know that's all the rage now. Like this, " shefinished, producing from somewhere about her person a half-sheet ofnote-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 theroom and looking toward the stairway. Mr. Jenkins had been a member ofthe Burton household long enough to have learned to take Susan at herown 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 evencomments--except the silent comment of eager service with somefavorite dish for every meal. As Christmas drew near, and DanielBurton's hours grew longer, Susan still made no audible comment; butshe redoubled her efforts to make him comfortable the few hours leftto him at home. 

CHAPTER XVIII

"MISS STEWART"

It was just after Christmas that another letter came from Keith. Itwas addressed as usual to Susan. Keith had explained in his secondletter that he was always going to write to Susan, so that she mightread it to his father, thus saving him the disagreeableness of seeinghow crooked and uneven some of his lines were. His father hadremonstrated--feebly; but Keith still wrote to Susan. 

Keith had been improving in his writing very rapidly, however, sincethose earliest letters, and most of his letters now were models ofeven lines and carefully formed characters. But this letter Susan sawat once was very different. It bore unmistakable marks of haste, agitation, and lack of care. It began abruptly, after the briefest ofsalutations:

Why didn't you tell me you knew Miss Stewart? She says she knows youreal well, and father, too, and that she's been to the house lots oftimes, and that she's going back to Hinsdale next week, and that sheis 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. Ihad to worm it out of her little by little. But what I want to knowis, 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 nordad. But she says she knows dad real well. Funny dad never mentionedit!

Miss Stewart sure is a peach of a girl all right and the best ever tome. She's always hunting up new games for me to play. She's taught metwo this time, and she's read two books to me. There's a new fellowhere named Henty, and we play a lot together. I am well, and gettingalong all right. Guess that's all for this time. Love to all. KEITHP. S. Now don't forget to tell me why you never said a thing that youknew Miss Stewart. K. 

"Well, now I guess the kettle is in the fire, all right!" ejaculatedSusan, 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 DorothyParkman. 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'llfind 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 herfather's new doctor, nor anything that is hers. "

"Nonsense, Susan, don't be silly, " snapped the man, still moreirritably. "'Nor her father, nor her father's new doctor, nor anythingthat is hers, ' indeed! You sound for all the world as if you werechanting a catechism! What's the matter? Doesn't the boy like MissDorothy?"

"Why, Daniel Burton, you know he don't! I told you long ago all aboutit, 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 grimlyand 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. Ihave 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 Burtongot it into his head when he was first goin' blind that DorothyParkman would hate to look at him if ever he did get blind; an' hejust vowed an' determined that if ever he did get that way, sheshouldn't see him. Well, now he's blind. An' if you think he's forgotwhat Dorothy Parkman said, you'd oughter been with me when she came tosee him with Mazie Sanborn one day, or even when they just called upto him on the piazza one mornin'. "

"Well, well, very likely, " conceded the man irritably; "but I stillmust remind you, Susan, that all this was some time ago. Keith's gotmore 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 littledefiant toss of her head. 

Susan did not answer Keith's letter at once. Just how she was going toanswer that particular question concerning their acquaintance with"Miss Stewart" she did not know, nor could she get any assistance fromDaniel Burton on the subject. 

"Why, tell him the truth, of course, " was all that Daniel Burton wouldanswer, with a shrug, in reply to her urgent appeals for aid in thematter. This, Susan, in utter horror, refused to do. 

"But surely you don't expect to keep it secret forever who she is, doyou?" 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 hisblessed 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 theman 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 arrivein Hinsdale in two days. 

"I'll jest wait, then, an' intervene the young lady my own self, " shemused, as she walked home from the post-office. "This tryin' to settleDorothy Parkman's affairs without Dorothy Parkman is like havin'omelet with omelet left out, " she finished, nodding to herself all inthe dark, as she turned in at the Burton gateway. 

Dorothy Parkman came two days later. As was usual now she came at onceto the house. Susan on the watch, met her at the door, before shecould touch the bell. 

"Come in, come in! My, but I'm glad to see you!" exclaimed Susanfervently, fairly pulling her visitor into the house. "Now tell meeverything---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 achair, and drawing her own chair nearer. "About your bein' in Hinsdalean' knowin' us, an' all that, an' his finding it out. "

"Oh, THAT!" The color flew instantly into Miss Dorothy's cheeks. "Thenhe's--he's written you?"

"Written us! I should say he had! An' he wants to know why we hain'ttold him we know you. An', lan' sakes, Miss Dorothy, what can we tellhim?"

"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 youknow my dad?' he burst out. Then he asked another and anotherquestion. Of course, I saw right away that I must turn it off as if Isupposed he'd known it all the time. It wouldn't do to make a secretof it and act embarrassed because he'd found it out, for of coursethen 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 wehain't told him about knowin' you. "

"I don't know, Susan, I don't know. " The girl shook her head andcaught her breath a bit convulsively. "Of course, when I first let itgo that I was 'Miss Stewart, ' I never realized where it was going tolead, nor how--how hard it might be to keep it up. I've been expectingevery day he'd find out, from some one there. But he hasn't--yet. Ofcourse, Aunt Hattie, who keeps house for father, is in the secret, andSHE'D never give it away. Most of the patients don't know much aboutme, anyway. You see, I've never been there much. They just knowvaguely of 'the doctor's daughter, ' and they just naturally call her'Miss Stewart. '"

"Yes, yes, I see, I see, " nodded Susan, again still worriedly. "Butwhat 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 whoyou be an' demandin' a full exposition of the whole affair. Say, looka-here, would it be--be very bad if he DID find out you was DorothyParkman?"

"I'm afraid--it would be, Susan. " The girl spoke slowly, a bitunsteadily. 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 flingingout those questions one after another, about Hinsdale, and what I knewof 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 perfectlyinnocuous, too, of any sinfulness, an' was jest doing it for his bestgood an' peace of mind. Lan' sakes, what a prediction to be in! WhatDID you say?"

"Why, I said yes, of course. I had to say yes. And I tried to turn itoff 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 wayhe looked, and said 'yes, I know her, too, ' in that quiet, stern wayof his, that--that I'd better not let him find out I was she--not if Iwanted to--to stay in the room, " she finished, laughing a littlehysterically. 

"Lan' sakes, you don't say!" frowned Susan. 

"Yes; and so that's what makes me know that whatever you do, youmustn't let him know that I am Dorothy Parkman, " cried the girlfeverishly; "not now--not until he's seen the Paris doctor, forthere's no knowing what he'd do. He'd be so angry, you see. He'd neverforgive me, for on top of all the rest is the deceit--that I've beenwith him all these different times, and let him call me 'MissStewart. '"

"But how can we do that?" demanded Susan. 

"Why, just turn it off lightly. Say, of course, you know me; and seemsurprised 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 gettingalong, and all that. Just make nothing of it--take it as a matter ofcourse, not worth mentioning. See? Then go on and talk about somethingelse. That'll fix it all right, I'm sure, Susan. "

"Hm-m; maybe so, an' then again maybe not, " observed Susan, withfrowning doubt. "As I was tellin' Mr. Burton this mornin' we've got tobe 'specially careful about Keith jest now. It's the mosthypercritical time there can be--with him waitin' to see that bigdoctor, an' all--an' he mustn't be upset, no matter what happens, norhow 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 insurprise 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 feetto go. She asked the question plainly not for information, but to fillthe embarrassing pause that Susan's second reply had brought to theconversation. 

"No, he ain't, " spoke up Susan with a vehemence as disconcerting as itwas sudden. "He ain't paintin' nothin', an' he ain't drawin' nothin'neither--only molasses an' vinegar an' kerosene. He's clerkin' down toMcGuire'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, Iwouldn'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, Idon't think it's no hilarious offense to wish they'd hurry up an' getto where they could have all them handy facilities back again, an'leave their money to folks what has got their full complaint ofsenses, ready to enjoy life, if they get a chance. Oh, yes, I know youdon't know what I'm talkin' about, an' perhaps it's jest as well youdon't, Miss Dorothy. I hadn't oughter said it, anyhow. Well, I s'poseI've got to go write that letter to Keith now. Seein' as how you'vecome I can't put it off no longer. Goodness only knows, though, whatI'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 bemostly made up of letters. 

At the sanatorium Keith was waiting for spring and the new doctor; andthat the waiting was proving to be a little nerve-racking was provedby the infrequency of his letters home, and the shortness anduncommunicativeness of such as did come. 

Letters to him from Hinsdale were longer and were invariably brightand cheery. Yet they did not really tell so much, after all. To besure, they did contain frequent reference to "your Miss Stewart, " andgave carefully casual accounts of what she did and said. In the veryfirst letter Susan had hit upon the idea of always referring to theyoung 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 tono 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. Forinstance: neither in Daniel Burton's letters, nor in Susan's, wasthere any reference to the new clerk in McGuire's grocery store. Sofar as anything that Keith knew to the contrary, his father was stillpainting unsalable pictures in the Burton home-stead studio. 

But even these were not all the letters that spring. There were theletters of John McGuire from far-away France--really wonderfulletters--letters that brought to the little New England town the verybreath of the battle-field itself, the smell of its smoke, the shrieksof its shells. And with Mr. Burton, with Susan, with the wholeneighborhood indeed, Mrs. McGuire shared them. They were even printedoccasionally in the town's weekly newspaper. And they were talked ofeverywhere, day in and day out. No wonder, then, that, to Susan, thespring seemed but a "serious of letters. "

It was in May that the great Paris doctor was expected; but late inApril came a letter from Dr. Stewart saying that, owing to warconditions, the doctor had been delayed. He would not reach thiscountry now until July--which meant two more months of weary waitingfor 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 theycome along with jest a little more, somethin's got to break, I tellyou. Well, I've broke. "

Whether as a result of the "break" or not, Susan did not say, neitherdid she mention whether it was to assuage her own grief or toalleviate Keith's; but whatever it was, Susan wrote these verses andsent 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'treally got much sense to it, " wrote Susan in the letter she sent withthe verses. "I put it in mostly to rhyme with 'remember. ' (Theresimply 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 Decemberis the end of the year. 

"Well, anyhow, they done me lots of good, them verses did, an' I hopethey will you. "

In June Dorothy Parkman was graduated from the Hinsdale Academy. BothMr. Burton and Susan attended the exercises, though not together. ThenSusan 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'sname for Dorothy Parkman, " she said to Mr. Burton, when she handed himthe letter to mail. "But I'm jest bound an' determined it shall lasttill that there Paris doctor gets his hands on him. An' she ain'tgoin' back now to her father's for quite a spell--Miss Dorothy, Imean, " further explained Susan. "I guess she don't want to take nochances herself of his findin' out--jest yet, " declared Susan, with asage wag of her head. "Anyhow, she's had an inspiration to go see agirl 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 thatin a measure prepared them for the bad news. He wrote the day beforethe operation. He said that the great oculist was immensely interestedin the case and eager to see what he could do--though he could holdout no sort of promise that he would be able to accomplish the desiredresults. Dr. Stewart warned them, therefore, not to expect anything--though, of course, they might hope. Hard on the heels of the lettercame the telegram. The operation had been performed--and had failed, they feared. They could not tell surely, however, until the bandageswere removed, which would be early in August. But even if it hadfailed, there was yet one more chance, the doctor wrote. He would saynothing about that, however, until he was obliged to. 

In August he wrote about it. He was obliged to. The operation had beenso near a failure that they might as well call it that. The Parisoculist, however, had not given up hope. There was just one man in theworld who might accomplish the seemingly impossible and give backsight to Keith's eyes--at least a measure of sight, he said. This manlived in London. He had been singularly successful in several of thefew similar cases known to the profession. Therefore, with their kindpermission, the great Paris doctor would take Keith back with him tohis brother oculist in London. He would like to take ship at once, assoon as arrangements could possibly be made. There would be delayenough, anyway, as it was. So far as any question of pay wasconcerned, the indebtedness would be on their side entirely if theywere privileged to perform the operation, for each new case of thisvery rare malady added knowledge of untold value to the profession, hence to humanity in general. He begged, therefore, a prompt word ofpermission from Keith's father. 

"Don't you give it, don't you give it!" chattered Susan, with whitelips, when the proposition was made clear to her. 

"Why, Susan, I thought you'd be willing to try anything, ANYTHING--forKeith's sake. "

"An' so I would, sir, anything in season. But not this. Do you thinkI'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 downbombs an' shrapnel on his head, an' he not bein' able to see a thingto dodge 'em when he sees 'em comin'? Why, Daniel Burton, I'm ashamedof you--to think of it, for a minute!"

"There, there, Susan, that will do. You mean well, I know; but this isa matter that I shall have to settle for myself, for myself, " hemuttered with stern dignity, rising to his feet. Yet when he left theroom a moment later, head and shoulders bowed, he looked so old andworn 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 sheturned away. 

Keith went to London. Then came more weeks of weary, anxious waiting. Letters were not so regular now, nor so frequent. Definite news washard to obtain. Yet in the end it came all too soon--and it waspiteously 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, sweepingoff the side porch, was accosted by Mrs. McGuire. 

It was the first warm spring-like day, and Mrs. McGuire, bareheadedand coatless, had opened the back-yard gate and was picking her wayacross 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. Someway, I feel as if I was helpin' along the spring. "

"Humph! Well, I should help along somethin' 'sides spring, I guess, ifI did it. Besides, it strikes me rubbers ain't the only thing you'releavin' 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 sunshinecould do any one any harm! Susan, it's LIEUTENANT McGuire, now! I cameover to tell you. My John's been promoted. "

"Sho, you don't say! Ain't that wonderful, now?" Susan's broom stoppedin midair, "Not when you know my John!" The proud mother lifted her head alittle. "'For bravery an' valiant service'--Lieutenant McGuire! OhSusan, Susan, but I'm the proud woman this mornin'!"

"Yes, of course, of course, I ain't wonderin' you be!" Susan drew along sigh and fell to sweeping again. 

Mrs. McGuire, looking into Susan's face, came a step nearer. Her ownface 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'tit?"

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 lastnight. It seems terrible. "

"Yes, it does. " Susan was sweeping vigorously now, over and over againin 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'llsee. 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 onhis 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' youhaven'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 ofblack darkness ahead of him! I tell you, Susan, I never appreciated myeyes as I have since Keith lost his. Seems as though anybody that'sgot 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 skyan' the sunshine an' the little buds breakin' through their brownjackets. Why, Susan, I never realized how good just seein' was--till Ithought 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 setlips, 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 alight "Yes, so've I. Good-bye!" which gave no sign that she had seenand understood. 

Dr. Stewart came himself with Keith to Hinsdale and accompanied him tothe house. It had been the doctor's own suggestion that neither theboy's father nor Susan should meet them at the train. Perhaps thedoctor 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 alreadygrievous burden. So he had written:

I will come to the house. As I am a little uncertain as to the train Ican catch from Boston, do not try to meet me at the station. 

"Jest as if we couldn't see through that subterranean!" Susan hadmuttered to herself over the dishes that morning. "I guess he knowswhat train he's goin' to take all right. He jest didn't want us tomeet him an' make a scenic at the depot. I wonder if he thinks Iwould! 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 theystood: Keith, big and strong and handsome (Susan had forgotten thattwo years could transform a somewhat awkward boy into so fine andstalwart a youth); the doctor, pale, and with an apprehensiveuncertainty in his eyes. 

"Well, Susan, how are you?" Keith's voice was strong and steady, andthe outstretched hand gripped hers with a clasp that hurt. 

Then, in some way never quite clear to her, Susan found herself in thebig living-room with Keith and the doctor and Daniel Burton, allshaking hands and all talking at once. They sat down then, and theirsentences became less broken, less incoherent. But they said onlyordinary things about the day, the weather, the journey home, JohnMcGuire, the war, the President's message, the entry of the UnitedStates into the conflict. There was nothing whatever said about eyesthat 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 alittle higher pitch than was usual; and when the doctor had gone, Keith and his father went at once upstairs to the studio and shut thedoor. 

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 ather "mad song, " and at several others. But every now and then, betweensongs and rattles, she would stop and listen intently; and twice sheclimbed halfway up the back stairs and stood poised, her breathsuspended, her anxious eyes on that closed studio door. 

Yet supper that night was another very ordinary occurrence, with Keithand his father talking of the war and Susan waiting upon them with acheerfulness that was almost obtrusive. 

In her own room that night, however, Susan addressed an imaginaryKeith, all in the dark. 

"You're fine an' splendid, an' I love you for it, Keith, my boy, " shechoked; "but you don't fool your old Susan. Your chin is up, jest as Isaid 'twould be, an' you're marchin' straight ahead. But inside, yourheart is breakin'. Do you think I don't KNOW? But we ain't goin' tolet each other KNOW we know, Keith, my boy. Not much we ain't! An' Iguess if you can march straight ahead with your chin up, the rest ofus can, all right. We'll see!"

And Susan was singing again the next morning when she did herbreakfast 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 everyroom in the house and I can't find him anywhere. " Keith spoke with theaggrieved air of one who has been deprived of his just rights. 

Susan's countenance changed. "Why, Keith, don't you--that is, yourfather--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 takenme. He always took me. Susan, what's the matter? Where IS dad?" A noteof uncertainty, almost fear, had crept into the boy's voice. "You'rekeeping--SOMETHING from me. "

Susan caught her breath and threw a swift look into Keith's unseeingeyes. Then she laughed, hysterically, a bit noisily. 

"Keepin' somethin' from you? Why, sure we ain't, boy! Didn't I jesttell 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--" Hestopped short. Face, voice, and manner underwent a complete change. "Susan, you don't mean that dad is CLERKING down there behind thatgrocery 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 voicestill triumphant. 

"Sure he is! An' he gets real good wages, too, an'--" But Keith with alow cry had gone. 

Before the noon dinner, however, he appeared again at the kitchendoor. 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 peoplehaven'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' ofcourse, if he's found somethin' he likes better--"

"Susan, you don't have to talk like that to me" interposed Keithquietly. "I understand, of course. There are some things that can beseen without--eyes. "

"Oh, but honest, Keith, he--" But once again Keith had gone and Susanfound 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 intothe faces of the two men sitting opposite each other. But in thekitchen, 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 itdon'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. Shedid not like the nervous twitching of his hands. She did not like theexaggerated cheerfulness of his manner. 

And Keith WAS cheerful. He played solitaire with his marked cards andwhistled. He worked at his raised-picture puzzles and sang snatches ofmerry song. He talked with anybody who came near him--talked very fastand laughed a great deal. But behind the whistling and the singing andthe laughter Susan detected a tense strain and nervousness that shedid 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 herpeace; 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 wasinclined to make a lion of the boy. 

Women brought him jelly and fruit, and men clapped him on the shoulderand said, "How are you, my boy?" in voices that were not quite steady. Young girls brought him flowers, and asked Susan if they could notread or sing or do SOMETHING to amuse him. Children stood about thegate and stared, talking in awe-struck whispers, happy if they couldcatch a glimpse of his face at the window. 

A part of this Susan succeeded in keeping from Keith--Susan had awell-founded belief that Keith would not care to be a lion. But agreat deal of it came to his knowledge, of course, in spite ofanything she could do. However, she told herself that she need nothave worried, for if Keith had recognized it for what it was, he madeno 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 wantto hear John's letters. And there were all the old ones, besides thenew ones that came from time to time. She brought them all, and readthem to him. She talked about the young soldier, too, a great deal, tothe blind boy--She explained to Susan that she wanted to do everythingshe could to get him out of himself and interest him in the worldoutside; and that she didn't know any better way to do it than to tellhim of these brave soldiers who were doing something so really worthwhile 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, SusanBetts. "

"Yes, he is--brave, " said Susan, a little shortly--so shortly thatMrs. McGuire opened her eyes a bit, and wondered why Susan's lips hadsnapped tight shut in that straight, hard line. 

"But what ails the woman?" she muttered to herself, vexedly, as shecrossed the back yard to her own door. "Wasn't she herself alwaysbraggin' about his bein' so brave? Humph! There's no such thing aspleasin' some folks, it seems!" finished Mrs. McGuire as she enteredher own door. 

But Mrs. McGuire was not the only frequent caller. There was MazieSanborn. 

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 readit to Keith. 

Susan was skeptical of this, even fearful. She had not forgottenKeith's frenzied avoidance of such callers in the old days. But to hersurprise now Keith welcomed Mazie joyously--so joyously that Susanbegan to suspect that behind the joyousness lay an eagerness towelcome anything that would help him to forget himself. 

She was the more suspicious of this during the days that followed, asshe saw this same nervous eagerness displayed every time any onecalled at the house. Susan's joy then at Keith's gracious response tovisitors' attentions changed to a vague uneasiness. Behind and beyondit all lay an intangible something upon which Susan could not placeher finger, but which filled her heart with distrust. And so still shekept her eyes on Keith. 

In June Dorothy Parkman came to Hinsdale. She came at once to seeSusan. But she would only step inside the hall, and she spoke low andhurriedly, looking fearfully toward the closed doors beyond thestairway. 

"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 beany help to him, either as Miss Stewart or Dorothy Parkman. Only I--Isuppose I would HAVE to be Dorothy Parkman now. I couldn't keep theother up forever, of course. But I don't know how to tell--" Shestopped, 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 realme, " faltered the girl wistfully. "Maybe. " Susan's sigh and frownexpressed doubt. 

"But he's real brave, " challenged the girl quickly. "Mazie SAID hewas. "

"I know. Everybody says--he's brave. " There was an odd constraint inSusan's voice, but the girl was too intent on her own problem tonotice 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, forhe 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 youthink?"

"He ought to. He sees everybody else. "

"I know. Mazie says--"

"Does Mazie know about you?" interrupted Susan. "I mean, about yourbeing 'Miss Stewart'?"

"A little, but not much. I told her once that he 'most always calledme 'Miss Stewart, ' but I never made anything of it, and I never toldher 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 hallstood Keith. 

"Susan, I thought I heard--WAS Miss Stewart here?" he demandedexcitedly. 

With only the briefest of hesitations and a half-despairing, half-relieved look into Susan's startled eyes, the young girl hurriedforward. 

"Indeed I'm here, " she cried gayly, giving a warm clasp to his eagerlyoutstretched hand "How do you do? Susan was just saying--. "

But Susan was gone with upflung hands and a look that said "No, youdon't rake me into this thing, young lady!" as plainly as if she hadspoken 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 knewhow I wanted to see you. "

"Oh, but I didn't, " she laughed a little embarrassedly. "You're athome now, and you have all your old friends, and--"

"But they're not you. There's not any one like you, " cut in the youthfervently. "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--Thereare so many--"

"But I told you there isn't anybody like you, Miss Stewart. Thereisn't any one here that UNDERSTANDS--like you. And it was you whofirst 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, Idon't say this sort of thing very often. I never said it before--toanybody. But I want you to know that I understood and appreciated justwhat you were doing all those weeks for me out there at thesanatorium. And it was the WAY you did it, with never a word or a hintthat I was different. You did things, and you made me do things, without reminding me all the time that I was blind. I shall neverforget 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 Iblessed 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 canmake 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'mso glad if I've helped--any!"

"You've helped more--than you'll ever know. But, come--look! I've gota dandy new game here. " And Keith, very obviously to hide the shake inhis voice and the emotion in his face, turned gayly to a little standnear him and picked up a square cardboard box. 

Half an hour later, Dorothy Parkman, passing through the hall on herway to the outer door, was waylaid by Susan. 

"Sh-h! Don't speak here, but come with me, " she whispered, leading theway through the diningroom. In the kitchen she stopped and turnedeagerly. "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 triedto do it two or three times. Indeed, I did. But the words justwouldn'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 thethings he said--" She stopped and looked back over her shoulder towardthe room she had just left. 

"But, Miss Dorothy, don't you see? It'll be all right, now. You'veSHOWN him that you don't mind being with blind folks a mite. So now hewon'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'dmind the deceit all these long months, and it wouldn't be easy to--tomake him understand. He'd never forgive it--I know he wouldn't--tothink 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, becausehe 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 thegirl. 

"You're COMIN' AGAIN?"

"Yes, oh, yes. I shall come as long as he'll let me. I know he wantsme to. I know I HAVE helped a little. He spoke--beautifully about thatto-day. But, whether, after he finds out--" Her voice choked intosilence and she turned her head quite away. 

"There, there, dear, don't you fret, " Susan comforted her. "You jestgo 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' youkeep 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 finishedwith 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 herefforts to make her position clear to him, her secret still remainedher own. Then, on the third visit, the dreaded disclosure came, naturally, and in the simplest, most unexpected way; yet in a way thatwould most certainly have been the last choice of Miss Dorothy herselfcould she have had aught to say about it. 

The two, Keith and Dorothy, had had a wonderful hour over a book thatDorothy had brought to read. They had been sitting on the porch, andDorothy had risen to go when there came a light tread on the frontwalk and Mazie Sanborn tripped up the porch steps. 

"Well, Dorothy Parkman, is this where you were?" she cried gayly. "Iwas hunting all over the house for you half an hour ago. "

"DOROTHY PARKMAN!" Keith was on his feet. His face had grown verywhite. 

Dorothy, too, her eyes on Keith's face, had grown very white; yet shemanaged to give a light laugh, and her voice matched Mazie's own forgayety. 

"Were you? Well, I was right here. But I'm going now. "

"You! but--Miss Stewart!" Keith's colorless lips spoke the words justabove his breath. 

"Why, Keith Burton, what's the matter?" laughed Mazie. "You look as ifyou'd seen a ghost. I mean--oh, forgive that word, Keith, " she brokeoff in light apology. "I'm always forgetting, and talking as if youcould really SEE. But you looked so funny, and you brought out that'Dorothy Parkman' with such a surprised air. Just as if you didn'tever call her that in the old school days, Keith Burton! Oh, Dorothytold me you called her 'Miss Stewart' a lot now; but--"

"Yes, I have called her 'Miss Stewart' quite a lot lately, " interposedKeith, in a voice so quietly self-controlled that even Dorothy herselfwas almost deceived. But not quite. Dorothy saw the clenched musclesand white knuckles of his hands as he gripped the chair-back beforehim; 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" heput both hands suddenly and resolutely behind his back. Dorothy sawit, 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 Susanbrightly, as her ring was answered. "I thought I'd come early beforeanybody else got here. "

She would have stepped in, but Susan's ample figure still barred theway. 

"Well, now, that's too bad!" Susan's voice expressed genuine concernand personal disappointment. "Ain't it a shame? Keith said he wa'n'tfeelin' nohow well this mornin', an' that he didn't want to see noone. An' under no circumstances not to let no one in to see him. Butmaybe if I told him't was you--"

"No, no, don't--don't do that!" cried the girl hurriedly. "I--I'llcome again some other time. "

On the street a minute later she whispered tremulously: "He did it onpurpose, of course. He KNEW I would come this morning! But he can'tkeep 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'tI tell him? Why didn't I tell him? But I will tell him. He can't keepthis up forever. "

When on a second and a third and a fourth morning, however, Dorothyhad found Susan's figure barring the way, and had received the samedistressed "He says he won't see no one, Miss Dorothy, " from Susan'splainly troubled lips, Dorothy began to think Keith did mean to keepit 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 thelooks of it, anyhow. He says he ain't sick--not physicianly sick; buthe 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 thatsolitary some, an' putters a little with some of his raised books; butmostly he jest sits still an' thinks. An' I don't like it. If only hisfather was here. But with him gone peddlin' molasses, an' no one'lowed into the house, there ain't anything for him to do but tothink. An' 'tain't right nor good for him. I've watched him an' Iknow. "

"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 asthat, " 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 porchand called me by name right out. Oh, Susan, it was awful. I shallnever 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 otherfolks? They hain't anything to do with you. "

"I don't know--unless he didn't want to tell you specially not to letme 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'texpress what it was. But I saw it; and I never shall forget it. Yousee, to have it blurted out to him like that without any warning--andof 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 comethe next morning to--to finish the book. I thought he'd understand Iwas going to explain then. He probably did--and that's why he won'tlet me in. He doesn't want any explanations, " sighed the girltremulously. 

"Well, he ought to want 'em, " asserted Susan with vigor. "'Tain't fairnor right nor sensible for him to act like this, makin' a mountain outof an ant-hill. I declare, Miss Dorothy, he ought to be made to seeyou. "

The girl flushed and drew back. 

"Most certainly not, Susan! I--I am not in the habit of MAKING peoplesee me, when they don't wish to. Do you suppose I'm going to beg andtease: 'PLEASE won't you let me see you?' Hardly! He need not worry. Ishall not come again. "

"Oh, Miss Dorothy!" remonstrated Susan. 

"Why, of course I won't, Susan!" cried the girl. "Do you suppose I'mgoing to keep him from seeing other people just because he's afraidhe'll have to let me in, too? Nonsense, Susan! Even you must admit Icannot allow that. You may tell Mr. Keith, please, that he may feel nofurther 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, lookingafter her. 

Two minutes later Susan sought Keith in the living-room. Her wholeself 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 youmight 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'lllet it go at that, if you please, " he said. 

"But I don't please!" Susan was in the room now, close to Keith'schair. Her face was quivering with emotion. "Keith, won't you listento reason? It ain't like you a mite to sit back like this an' refuseto see a nice little body like Dorothy Parkman, what's been so kind--"

"Susan!" Keith was sitting erect again. His face was white, andcarried a stern anguish that Susan had never seen before. "I don'tcare to discuss Miss Parkman with you or with anybody else. Neither doI care to discuss the fact that I thoroughly understand, of course, that you, or she, or anybody else, can fool me into believing anythingyou 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 DorothyParkman?"

"But she was only tryin' to HELP you, an'--"

"I don't want to be 'helped'!" stormed the boy hotly. "Did it everoccur to you, Susan, that I might sometimes like to HELP somebodymyself, instead of this everlastingly having somebody help me?"

"But you do help. You help me, " asserted Susan feverishly, working hernervous fingers together. "An' you'd help me more if you'd only letfolks in to see you, an'--"

"All right, all right, " interrupted Keith testily. "Let them in. Leteverybody 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 daywith a letter from her John, Susan ushered her into the living-roomwhere Keith was sitting alone. And Keith welcomed her with at least agood imitation of his old heartiness. 

Mrs. McGuire said she had such a funny letter to read to-day. She knewhe'd enjoy it, and Susan would, too, particularly the part that Johnhad quoted from something that had been printed by the Britishsoldiers in France and circulated among their comrades in the trenchesand hospitals, and everywhere. John had written it off on a separatepiece 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. Ifnot, you have nothing to worry about. 

If you are mobilized, you have two alternatives: you are in camp or atthe 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 onthe fighting line or in reserve. If in reserve, you have nothing toworry about. 

If you are on the fighting line, you have two alternatives: either youfight 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 youdon't. If you don't, you have nothing to worry about. 

If you are hurt, you have two alternatives: either you are slightlyhurt 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, andhave followed my advice clear through, you have done with worryforever. 

Mrs. McGuire was in a gale of laughter by the time she had finishedreading this; so, too, was Susan. Keith also was laughing, but hislaughter did not have the really genuine ring to it--which fact didnot escape Susan. 

"Well, anyhow, he let Mis' McGuire in--an' that's somethin', " shemuttered to herself, as Mrs. McGuire took her departure. "Besides, hetalked to her real pleasant--an' that's more. "

As the days passed, others came, also, and Keith talked with them. Heeven 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 andthe assurance that Keith had said he would see her. Even then nothingwould have persuaded her, she told Susan, except the great hope thatshe could say something, in some way, that would set her right inKeith's eyes. 

So with fear and trembling and with a painful embarrassment on herface, but with a great hope in her heart, she entered the room andcame straight to Keith's side. 

For a moment the exultation of a fancied success sent a warm glow allthrough her, for Keith had greeted her pleasantly and even extendedhis hand. But almost at once the glow faded and the great hope died inher heart, for she saw that even while she touched his hand, he wasyet miles away from her. 

He laughed and talked with her--oh, yes; but he laughed too much andtalked too much. He gave her almost no chance to say anything herself. And what he said was so inconsequential and so far removed fromanything intimately concerning themselves, that the girl found itutterly impossible to make the impassioned explanation which she hadbeen saying over and over again all night to herself, and from whichshe had hoped so much. 

Yet at the last, just before she bade him good-bye, she did manage tosay something. But in her disappointment and excitement andembarrassment, her words were blurted out haltingly and ineffectually, and they were not at all the ones she had practiced over and over toherself in the long night watches; nor were they received as she hadpalpitatingly pictured that they would be, with Keith first stern andhurt, and then just dear and forgiving and UNDERSTANDING. 

Keith was neither stern nor hurt. He still laughed pleasantly, and hetossed 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 Dorothyfound herself hurrying down the Burton front walk with burning cheeksand a chagrined helplessness that left her furious and with anineffably cheap feeling--yet not able to put her finger on anydiscourteous flaw in Keith's punctilious politeness. 

"I wish I'd never said a word--not a word, " she muttered hotly toherself as she hurried down the street. "I wonder if he thinks--I'llever open my head to him about it again. Well, he needn't--worry! But--oh, Keith, Keith, how could you?" she choked brokenly. Then abruptlyshe 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 thatJuly morning that Susan almost fell down the back stairs in her hasteto 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 paceup and down the kitchen floor, moaning frenziedly:

"It's come--it's come--I knew't would come. Oh, what shall I do? Whatshall 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, wringingher hands. "Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do?"

With a firm grasp Susan caught the twisting fingers and gently butresolutely 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 nosort 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'ndeath; for while there's life there's hope, you know. "

"But it is, it is, I tell you, " sobbed Mrs. McGuire still swaying herbody back and forth. "Susan, my boy is--BLIND. " With the utterance ofthe dread word Mrs. McGuire stiffened suddenly into rigid horror, hereyes 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 toside. 

"No, 'twas a dispatch. It came this mornin'. Just now. Mr. McGuire wasgone, an' there wasn't anybody there but the children, an' they'reasleep. 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 meall about it. What was it? What happened?"

"I don't know. I just know he's blind, an' that he's comin' home. He'son his way now. My John--blind! Oh, Susan, what shall I do, what shallI do?"

"Then he probably ain't sick, or hurt anywheres else, if he's on hisway 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 saidblinded, " chattered Mrs. McGuire feverishly. "They get them home justas soon as they can when they're blinded. We were readin' about itonly 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--myJohn!"

"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 mindplainly on her own trouble; but Susan, intent on HER trouble, did notneed even the question to spur her tongue. 

"No, he ain't. Oh, he's brave an' cheerful. He's awful cheerful, evencheerfuler 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 sprungto her feet and was pacing the floor again, moaning: "Oh, what shall Ido, what shall I do?" A minute later, only weeping afresh at Susan'severy effort to comfort her, she stumbled out of the kitchen andhurried 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' mybreakfast, " she ejaculated with a hurried glance at the clock on thelittle shelf over the stove. 

There was nothing, apparently, to distinguish breakfast that morningfrom a dozen other breakfasts that had gone before. Keith and hisfather talked cheerfully of various matters, and Susan waited uponthem with her usual briskness. If Susan was more silent than usual, and if her eyes sought Keith's face more frequently than was herhabit, no one, apparently, noticed it. Susan did fancy, however, thatshe saw a new tenseness in Keith's face, a new nervousness in hismanner; but that, perhaps, was because she was watching him soclosely, and because he was so constantly in her mind, owing to herapprehension as to how he would take the news of John McGuire'sblindness. 

From the very first Susan had determined not to tell her news untilafter Mr. Burton had left the house. She could not have explained iteven to herself, but she had a feeling that it would be better to tellKeith when he was alone. She planned, also, to tell him casually, asit were, in the midst of other conversation--not as if it were the onething on her mind. In accordance with this, therefore, she forcedherself to finish her dishes and to set her kitchen in order beforeshe sought Keith in the living-room. 

But Keith was not in the living-room; neither was he on the porch oranywhere in the yard. 

With a troubled frown on her face Susan climbed the stairs to thesecond floor. Keith's room was silent, and empty, so far as humanpresence was concerned. So, too, was the studio, and every other roomon that floor. 

At the front of the attic stairs Susan hesitated. The troubled frownon 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, andalready now twice before she had found him up there, poking in thedrawers of an old desk that had been his father's. He had shut thedrawers quickly and had laughingly turned aside her questions when shehad asked him what in the world he was doing up there. And he had gotup immediately and had gone downstairs with her. But she had not likedthe look on his face. And to-day, as she hesitated at the foot of thestairs, she was remembering that look. But for only a moment. Resolutely then she lifted her chin, ran up the stairs, and opened theattic door. 

Over at the desk by the window there was a swift movement--but not soswift that Susan did not see the revolver pushed under some loosepapers. 

"Is that you, Susan?" asked Keith sharply. "Yes, honey. I jest came upto get somethin'. "

Susan's face was white like paper, and her hands were cold andshaking, but her voice, except for a certain breathlessness, wascheerfully steady. With more or less noise and with a running fire ofinconsequent 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 toone side and dropped her hand on the revolver. At the same momentKeith's arm shot out and his hand fell, covering hers. 

She saw his young face flush and harden and his mouth set into sternlines. 

"Susan, you'll be good enough, please, to take your hand off that, " hesaid then sharply. 

There was a moment's tense silence. Susan's eyes, agonized andpleading, were on his face. But Keith could not see that. He couldonly hear her words a moment later--light words, with a hidden laughin them, yet spoken with that same curious breathlessness. 

"Faith, honey, an' how can I, with your own hand holdin' mine sotight?"

Keith removed his hand instantly. His set face darkened. 

"This is not a joke, Susan, and I shall have to depend on your honorto let that revolver stay where it is. Unfortunately I am unable toSEE whether I am obeyed or not. "

It was Susan's turn to flush. She drew back at once, leaving theweapon uncovered on the desk between them. 

"I'm not takin' the pistol, Keith. " The laugh was all gone fromSusan's voice now. So, too, was the breathlessness. The voice wassteady, grave, but very gentle. "We take matches an' pizen an' knivesaway from CHILDREN--not from grown men, Keith. The pistol is rightwhere 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. Otherwisethere 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' afteryou've done this thing, there ain't any one in the world goin' to beso sorry as you'll be. You mark my words. "

It was like a sharp knife cutting a taut cord. The tense musclesrelaxed and Keith gave a sudden laugh. True, it was a short laugh, anda bitter one; but it was a laugh. 

"You forget, Susan. If--if I carried that out I wouldn't be in theworld--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 youthgrimly. "Don't forget, Susan, that I'd be SEEING, please. "

"Seein' ain't everything, Keith Burton. Jest remember that. There issome 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 alot of things you can do, an'--"

"Oh, yes, I know, " interrupted Keith fiercely, flinging out both hishands. "I can feel a book, and eat my dinner, and I can hear theshouts 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 chokingpause, with a wave of his hand toward the revolver on the desk;" and acowardly one, too. I know all that. And maybe I wouldn't have--havedone 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'vebeen up here two or three times just to--to feel of it. Somehow Iliked to know it was here, and that, if--if I just couldn't standthings another minute--

"But--I've tried to be decent, honest I have. But I'm tired of beingamused and 'tended to like a ten-year-old boy. I don't want flowersand jellies and candies brought in to me. I don't want to read andplay solitaire and checkers week in and week out. I want to be overthere, doing a man's work. Look at Ted, and Tom, and Jack Green, andJohn McGuire!"

"John McGuire!" It was a faltering cry from Susan, but Keith did noteven hear. 

"What are they doing, and what am I doing? Yet you people expect me tosit here contented with a dice-box and a deck of playing-cards, and beGLAD I can do that much. Oh, well, I suppose I ought to be. But when Isit here alone day after day and think and think--"

"But, Keith, we don't want you to do that, " interposed Susanfeverishly. "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 byyoung women who are SORRY for me. _I_ want to do the helping part ofthe time. And if I see a girl I--I could care for, I want to be ableto ask her like a man to marry me; and then if she says 'yes, ' I wantto be able to take care of her myself--not have her take care of meand 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 everytime, in spite of myself? It's the thought of--dad. How do you supposeI feel to think of dad peddling peas and beans and potatoes down toMcGuire'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 merelysaying that, as I happen to know, he prefers to paint pictures--and Iprefer to have him. And he'd be doing it this minute--if it wasn't forhis 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--ofme. I was going to be Jerry and Ned and myself; and I was going tomake him so proud, Susan, so proud! I was going to make up to him allthat he had lost. All day under the trees up on the hill, I used tolie and dream of what I was going to be some day--the great pictures Iwas going to paint--for dad. The great fame that was going to come tome--for dad. The money I was going to earn--for dad: I saw dad, oldand white-haired, leaning on me. I saw the old house restored--all thelocks and keys and sagging blinds, the cracked ceilings and tatteredwallpaper--all made fresh and new. And dad so proud and happy in itall--so proud and happy that perhaps he'd think I really had made upfor Jerry and Ned, and his own lost hopes. 

"And, now, look at me! Useless, worse than useless--all my life aburden 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 easyway--out. "

"Yes, 'twould--for quitters. Quitters always take easy ways out. Butyou ain't no quitter, Keith Burton. Besides, 't wouldn't end it. Youknow 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, KeithBurton, an' you know as well as I do that your eternal, immoral soulain't goin' to be snuffled out of existence by no pistol shot, nomatter 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 yourpoint. You made it--perhaps better than you know. But--well, it isn'tso 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 somebodyelse. And that's why some eyes had more than their share of hookshanging on to them. You see--I remembered. I knew then, when you saidit, that I was a hook, and--"

"Keith Burton, I never thought of you when I said that, " interruptedSusan 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--toanybody that will let me! But, Susan, don't you see?--sometimes itseems as if I'd give the whole world if just for once I could feelthat I--that some one was hanging on to me! that I was of some usesomewhere. "

"An' so you're goin' to be, honey. I know you be, " urged Susaneagerly. "Just remember all them fellers that wrote books an' givelecturing an'--"

"Oh, yes, I know, " interposed Keith, with a faint smile. "You were agood old soul, Susan, to read me all those charming tales, and Iunderstood of course, what you were doing it for. You wanted me to goand 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'. Godnever locked up the doors of your eyes without givin' you the key tosome other door. It's jest that you hain't found it yet. "

"Perhaps. I certainly haven't found it--that's sure, " retorted the ladbitterly. "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'smore'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'sall very true, of course, " cried Keith, stirring still morerestlessly. "But you see T don't happen to feel like hearing it justnow. Oh, yes, I know I've got lots to be thankful for. I can hear, andfeel, and taste, and walk; and I should be glad for all of them. And Iam, of course. I should declare that all's well with the world, andthat both sides of the street are sunny, and that there isn't anyshadow 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 asly chuckle. "That's all very well an' good, Master Keith Burton, butthere'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 thatthe man what says, yes, he knows one side is shady an' troublous, butthat he thinks it'll be healthier an' happier for him an' everybodyelse '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 whatsays there AIN'T no shady side!"

Keith gave a low laugh--a laugh more nearly normal than Susan hadheard him give for several days. 

"All right, Susan, I'll accept your amendment and--we'll let it gothat one side is shady, and that I'm supposed to determinedly pick thesunny side. Anything more?"

"M-more?"

"That you came up to say to me--yes. You know I have just saved youthe trouble of saying part of it. "

"Oh!" Susan laughed light-heartedly. (This was Keith--her Keith thatshe knew. ) "No that's all I--" She stopped short in dismay! All thecolor and lightness disappeared from her face, leaving it suddenlywhite and drawn. "That is, " she faltered, "there was somethin' else--Iwas goin' to say, about--about John McGuire. He--"

"I don't care to hear it. " Keith had frozen instantly into frigidaloofness. 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 Keithangrily, "but I tell you I don't want to hear it. Do you suppose acaged bird likes to hear of the woods and fields and tree-tops whilehe'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 standthat. "

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 theshort 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 wasblinded, 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 straightahead, his body tense and motionless. On the desk within reach lay therevolver. Cautiously Susan half extended her hand toward it, then drewit back. She glanced again at Keith's absorbed face, then turned andmade her way quietly down the stairs. 

At the bottom of the attic flight she glanced back. "He won't touch itnow, 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. Mengathered on street corners and women clustered about back-yard fencesand church doorways. Children besieged their parents with breathlessquestions, and repeated to each other in awe-struck whispers what theyhad heard. Everywhere was horror, sympathy, and interested speculationas to "how he'd take it. "

Where explicit information was so lacking, imagination and surmiseeagerly supplied the details; and Mrs. McGuire's news of the blindingof John McGuire was not three days old before a full account of thetragedy from beginning to end was flying from tongue to tongue--anaccount that would have surprised no one so greatly as it would havesurprised John McGuire himself. 

To Susan, Dorothy Parkman came one day with this story. 

"Well, 't ain't true, " disavowed Susan succinctly when the luriddetails 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' allshot 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' McGuirehad two letters yesterday from John, but--"

"From John--himself?"

"Yes; but they was both writ long before the apostrophe, an' 'coursethey didn't say nothin' about it. He was well an' happy, he said. Shehad 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 awaynow, 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'tgo again. Then, when I get to thinking of him sitting there alone allday, and of how he used to like to have me read to him and play withhim, I--I just have to go and see if he won't be the same as he usedto 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 hebraces back an' talks an' laughs. YOU know that. But in the exclusionof 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 blindfrom the war. An' he talks an' talks about 'em, an' mourns an' takeson something dreadful. He says HE knows what it means, an' that nobodycan know what hain't had it happen to 'em. An' he broods an' broodsover it. "

"I can--imagine it. " The girl said it with a little catch in hervoice. 

"An'--an' there's somethin' else I want to tell you about. I've got totell somebody. I want to know if you think I done right. An' you'rethe only one I can tell. I've thought it all out. Daniel Burton is toonear, an' Mis' McGuire an' all them others is too far. You ain't arelation, 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 spokevery lightly, very impersonally; but there was a sudden flame of colorin her face. Susan, however, was not noticing this. Furtively she wasglancing one way and another over her shoulder. 

"Yes. Well, the other day he--he tried to--that is, well, I--I foundhim 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, isit? For if he had done it, he wouldn't be alive now, would he?" brokeoff 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--thatawful 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 youabout--if I did right, you know. "

"Oh, no, no, Susan! I'm afraid, " shuddered the girl. "Can't you--getit away--now?"

"Maybe. I know where 'tis. I was up there yesterday an' see it. 'T wasin 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'mafraid to have it there--a single minute. "

"But, Miss Dorothy, stop; wait jest a minute. Think. How's he goin' toget self-defiance an' make a strong man of hisself if we take thingsaway 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 Susandefensively, 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 wasthat scared an' frightened I thought I couldn't move. But I knew I'dgot to, an' I knew I'd got to move RIGHT, too, or I'd spoileverything. 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 wholeinternal 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 afeelin' that he wouldn't never do that thing again. That somehow theMAN in him was on top, an' would stay on top. An' I'm more sure thanever of it now. He ain't thinkin' of hisself these days. It's JohnMcGuire and them others. An' ain't it better that he let that pistolalone 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 strongenough--to make him strong. "

"Yes, you would, if you'd been there. I reckon we're all goin' tolearn to do a lot of things we never did before, now that the war hascome. "

"Yes, I know. " A quivering pain swept across the young girl's face. 

"Somehow, the war never seemed real to me before. 'T was jestsomethin' 'way off--a lot of Dagoes an' Dutchmen, like the men whatdug up the McGuires' frozen water-pipes last spring, fightin'. Not ourkind 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 wasfolks on our earth. It was like somethin' you read about in them oldhistronic days, or somethin' happenin' up on the moon, or on thatplantation of Mars. Oh, of course, I knew John McGuire had gone; butsomehow I never thought of him as fightin'--not with guns an' bloodygore, in spite of them letters of his. Some way, in my mind's eyes Ialways see him marchin' with flags flyin' an' folks cheerin'; an' Ithought 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' TomSpencer, an' little Jacky Green that I used to hold on my knee. Someof 'em in France, an' some of 'em in them army canteens down to Ayeran' Texas an' everywhere. An' poor Tom's died already of pneumoniaright 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 ithurts. "

"It certainly does, Susan. "

"An' let me tell you. What do you s'pose, more 'n anything else, mademe 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 allthe time in my heart, an' burst out natural-like, as they used to. Ithink 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 findout somethin' is invaluable to other folks, it gets so it's invaluableto 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 Icouldn'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 seemedto swallow me up, an' I felt like a little pigment overtopped an'surrounded by great tall mountains of horror that were tumblin' downone after another on my head, an' bury in' me down so far an' deepthat 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 towrite 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 knownthat 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' hesays that's the worst of it, one woman told me. He's as sound as anut, an' good for a hundred years yet. If he'd only been smashed upgood an' solid, so's he'd have some hope of dyin' pretty quick, hewouldn't mind it, he says. But to live along like this--!--oh, he's inan awful state of mind, everybody says. "

"I can--imagine it, " sighed Keith. And by the way he turned away Susanknew that he did not care to talk any more. 

An hour later Mrs. McGuire hurried into Susan's kitchen. Mrs. McGuirewas looking thin and worn these days. From her half-buttoned shoes toher half-combed hair she was showing the results of strain andanxiety. With a long sigh she dropped into one of the kitchen chairs. 

"Well, Mis' McGuire, if you ain't the stranger!" Susan greeted hercordially. 

"Yes, I know, " sighed Mrs. McGuire. "But, you see, I can't leave--him. " As she spoke she looked anxiously through the window toward herown 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 hervisitor's face, had turned her back suddenly. She was busy now withthe dampers of her kitchen stove. 

"Of course we took it right away, " went on Mrs. McGuire, "an' put itwhere he'll never get it again. But we're always afraid there'll besomethin' somewhere that he WILL get hold of. You see, he's SOdespondent--in such a terrible state!"

"Yes, I know, " nodded Susan. Susan had abandoned her dampers, and hadturned 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--notanybody. But I've been wonderin' if he wouldn't see Keith, if we couldwork 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 supposewe could manage it?"

"Why, of course. I'll tell him right away, an' he'll go over; I knowhe'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 seeKeith, if I should ASK him to. But he's interested in Keith--I KNOWhe'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 donethat before, about anybody. An' so I was pretty sure it was becauseKeith 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 heknows it; an' that it'll do him a world of good. Anyway, somethin'sgot to be done, Susan--it's GOT to be--to get him out of this awfulstate 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 onto the back porch to-morrow mornin'. That's the only place outdoors ICAN get him--he can't be seen from the street there, you know. I'llget 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 intoyour yard an' stroll over to the fence an' speak to him, an' then comeup on to the porch an' sit down, just naturally. He can do that allright, can't he? It's just wonderful--the way he gets aroundeverywhere, with that little cane of his!"

"Yes, oh, yes. "

"Well, I thought he could. An' tell him to keep right on talkin' everyminute 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 himalone, you know. But as soon as Keith comes, I shall go. They'll getalong better by themselves, I'm sure--only, of course, I shall bewhere 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 herface. "Well, I must be goin'. Mr. McGuire'll have a fit. He's asnervous as a witch when he's left alone with John. There! What did Itell you?" she broke off, with an expressive gesture and glance, as acareworn-looking man appeared in the doorway of the house across thetwo back yards, and peered anxiously over at the Burtons' kitchendoor. "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' outall right--all right, I tell you, " she reiterated, as Mrs. McGuirehurried through the doorway. 

But when Mrs. McGuire was gone Susan drew a dubious sigh; and hercheery smile had turned to a questioning frown as she went in searchof Keith. Very evidently Susan was far from feeling quite so sureabout Keith's cooperation as she would have Mrs. McGuire think. 

Keith was in the living-room, his head bowed in his two hands, hiselbows on the table before him. At the first sound of Susan's steps helifted his head with a jerk. 

"I was lookin' for you, " began Susan the moment she had crossed thethreshold. Susan had learned that Keith hated above all things to haveto speak first, or to ask, "Who is it?" "Mis' McGuire's jest beenhere. "

"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 abad 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 seefolks. "

"Strange! Now, I'd think he'd just dote on seeing folks, wouldn'tyou?"

Susan caught the full force of the sarcasm, but superbly she ignoredit. 

"Well, I don't know--maybe; but, anyhow, he don't, an' Mis' McGuire'sthat worried she don't know what to do. You see, she found him oncewith his daddy's pistol"--Susan was talking very fast now--"an''course that worked her up somethin' terrible. I'm afraid he hain'tgot much backbone. They don't dare to leave him alone a minute--not aminute. 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 gethold 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 youto--Well, it's jest this. Mis' McGuire thought as how if she could gether John out on the back porch, an' you happened to be in our backyard, 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 himout of hisself that way. You see, he won't talk to--to most folks. Hedon't like to be stared at. " (Susan threw a furtive glance intoKeith's face, then looked quickly away. ) "But she thought maybe heWOULD 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 muchas 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 andheart-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 speakwith 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 hecomes 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 songshe knew was in his, turned away with an elaborate air ofindifference. 

Yet, when to-morrow came, and when Keith went out into the yard inresponse to the presence of John McGuire on his back porch, the resultwas most disappointing--to Susan. To Keith it did not seem to be somuch so. But perhaps Keith had not expected quite what Susan hadexpected. At all events, Keith came back to the house with a glow onhis face and a springiness in his step that Susan had not seen therefor months. Yet all that had happened was that Keith had called outfrom the gate a pleasant "Good-morning!" to the blinded soldier, andhad followed it with an inconsequential word or two about the weather. John McGuire had answered a crisp, cold something, and had risen atonce to go into the house. Keith, at the first sound of his feet onthe porch floor, had turned with a cheery "Well, I must be going backto the house. " Whereupon John McGuire had sat down again, and Mrs. McGuire, who at Keith's first words, had started to her feet, droppedback into her chair. 

Apparently not much accomplished, certainly; yet there was the glow onKeith's face and the springiness in Keith's step; and when he reachedthe 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 Susanand Mrs. McGuire thought it so. On the one side were persistence andperseverance and infinite tact. On the other were a distrustfulantagonism and a palpable longing for an understanding companionship. 

At first the intercourse between the two blind youths consisted of amere word or two tossed by Keith to the other who gave a still shorterword in reply. And even this was not every day, for John McGuire wasnot out on the porch every day. But as the month passed, he came moreand more frequently, and one evening Mrs. McGuire confided to Susanthe fact that John seemed actually to fret now if a storm kept himindoors. 

"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 muchyet, but he hasn't jumped up to go into the house once since thosefirst two or three times, an' that's somethin'. An' what's more, helet Keith stay a whole minute at the gate talkin' yesterday!" shefinished in triumph. 

"Yes, an' the best of it is, " chimed in Susan, "it's helpin' KeithBurton hisself jest as much as 'tis John McGuire. Why, he ain't thesame boy since he's took to tryin' to get your John to talkin'. An' heasks 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 ifJohn McGuire were on the back porch, did not go out. Instead hesettled 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 andwent back to her work in the kitchen. Twice during the next tenminutes, however, she invented an excuse to pass again through theliving-room, where Keith sat. Yet, though she said a pointed somethingeach time about John McGuire on the back porch, Keith did not respondsave with an indifferent word or two. And, greatly to her indignation, he was still sitting in his chair with his book when at noon JohnMcGuire, on the porch across the back yard, rose from his seat andwent into the house. 

Susan was still more indignant when, the next morning, the sameprogramme was repeated--except for the fact that Susan's reminders ofJohn McGuire's presence on the back porch were even more pointed thanthey had been on the day before. Again the third morning it was thesame. Susan resolved then to speak. She said to herself that "patiencehad ceased to be virtuous, " and she lay awake half that nightrehearsing a series of arguments and pleadings which she meant topresent the next morning. She was the more incited to this owing toMrs. McGuire's distracted reproaches the evening before. 

"Why, John has asked for him, actually ASKED for him, " Mrs. McGuirehad wept. "An' it is cruel, the cruelest thing I ever saw, to get thatpoor boy all worked up to the point of really WANTIN' to talk withhim, an' then stay away three whole days like this!"

On the fourth morning, therefore, when John McGuire appeared on theback porch, Susan went into the Burton living-room with the avoweddetermination of getting Keith out of the house and into the backyard, or of telling him exactly what she thought of him. 

She had all of her elaborate scheming for nothing, however, for at herfirst 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 nottoo dazed to run to the open window and watch what happened. 

And this is what Susan saw--and heard. Keith, with his almostuncannily skillful stick to guide him, sauntered down the path andcalled a cheery greeting to John McGuire--a John McGuire who, in hiseagerness to respond, leaned away forward in his chair with a suddenflame of color in his face. 

Keith still sauntered toward the dividing fence, pausing only to feelwith his fingers and pick the one belated rose from the bush at thegate. He pushed the gate open then, still talking cheerfully, and thenext moment Susan was holding her breath, for Keith had gone straightup the walk and up the steps, and had dropped himself into the vacantchair beside John McGuire--and John McGuire, after a faint start as ifto rise, had fallen back in his seat, and had turned his faceuncertainly, fearfully, yet with infinite longing, toward the blindyouth at his side. 

Susan looked then at Mrs. McGuire. Mrs. McGuire, too, was plainlyholding her breath suspended. On her face, too, were uncertainty, fearfulness, and infinite longing. For a moment she watched the twoboys intently. Then she rose and with cautious steps made her way intothe house. After supper that night she came over and told Susan allabout it. Her face was beaming. 

"Did you see them?" she began breathlessly. "Wasn't it wonderful? Awhole half-hour those two blessed boys sat there an' talked; an' Johnlaughed 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' Keithbecause he didn't come over these last three days. An' I never saw atall what he was up to. "

"Up to?" frowned Susan. 

"Yes, yes! Don't you see? He did it on purpose--stayed away threewhole days, so John would miss him an' WANT him. An' John DID misshim. Why, he listened for him all the time. I could just SEE he waslistenin'. An' that's what made me so angry, because Keith didn'tcome. 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 tomake 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 fromthe window. I HAD to watch. I was afraid--still. An' of course I heardsome things. An', oh, Susan, it was wonderful, the way that boyunderstood. "

"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 heldout for pennies an' his sign, 'Please Help the Blind, ' an' of whathe's got to look forward to all his life. Oh, Susan, it--it's enoughto 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 sayto him?"

"Nothin'. An' that was the first wonderful thing. You see, we--wealways talk an' try to comfort him when he talks like that. But Keithdidn't. He just let him talk, with nothin' but just a sympathetic wordnow an' then. But it wasn't long before I noticed a wonderful thingwas happenin'. Keith was beginnin' to talk--not about that awful tincup an' the pennies an' the sign, but about other things; first aboutthe 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 thatlittle link puzzle of Keith's, an' was havin' a great time tryin' tostraighten it out. That's the first time I heard him laugh. 

"I began to realize then what Keith was doin'. He was fillin' John'smind full of somethin' else beside himself, for just a minute, an' wasshowin' him that there were things he could call by name, like therose 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. Butbefore 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 youcould have seen his face when he said it! Oh, Susan, isn't itwonderful?" she finished fervently, as she turned to go. 

"It is, indeed--wonderful, " murmured Susan. But Susan's eyes were outthe window on Keith's face--Keith and his father were coming up thewalk talking; and on Keith's face was a light Susan had never seenthere before. 

CHAPTER XXVI

MAZIE AGAIN

It came to be the accepted thing almost at once, then, that KeithBurton and John McGuire should spend their mornings together on theMcGuires' back porch. In less than a fortnight young McGuire evencrossed the yard arm in arm with Keith to the Burtons' back porch andsat there one morning. After that it was only a question as to whichporch it should be. That it would be one of them was a foregoneconclusion. 

Sometimes the two boys talked together. Sometimes they worked on oneof Keith's raised picture puzzles. Sometimes Keith read aloud from oneof his books. Whatever they did, their doing it was the source ofgreat interest to the entire neighborhood. Not only did Mrs. McGuireand Susan breathlessly watch from their respective kitchens, butfriends and neighbors fabricated excuses to come to the two houses inorder to see for themselves; and children gathered along thedivisional fence and gazed with round eyes of wonder. But they gazedsilently. Everybody gazed silently. Even the children seemed tounderstand that the one unpardonable sin was to let the blind boys onthe 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 toread--an attention she certainly had never before bestowed on JohnMcGuire's mother. She talked one half-minute about the book--and fiveminutes about the beautiful new friendship between the two blind youngmen. She insisted on going into the kitchen where she could see thetwo boys on the porch. Then, before Mrs. McGuire could divine herpurpose and stop her, she had slipped through the door and out on tothe 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 herback into the kitchen before she could finish her sentence. 

On the porch the two boys had leaped to their feet, John McGuire, inparticular, looking distressed and angry. 

"Who was that? Is anybody--there?" he demanded. 

"No, dear, not now. " In the doorway Mrs. McGuire was trying to nodassurance to the boys and frown banishment to Mazie Sanborn at one andthe 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 thetruth. 

John McGuire sat down then. So, too, did Keith. But all the rest ofthe morning John was nervously alert for all sounds. And his ears werefrequently 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 andpuzzles, and when he was not railing at the tragedy of his fate, hewas sitting in gloomy silence. 

Keith told Susan that afternoon that if Mrs. McGuire did not keeppeople away from that porch when he was out there with John, he wouldnot answer for the consequences. Susan told Mrs. McGuire, and Mrs. McGuire told Mazie Sanborn, at the same time returning the loanedbook--all of which did not tend to smooth Miss Mazie's already ruffledfeelings. 

To Dorothy Mazie expressed her mind on the matter. 

"I don't care! I'll never go there again--never!" she declaredangrily; "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 Dorothyearnestly, the color flaming into her face. 

"He is, too. He's just as bad as John McGuire. He jumped up and lookedjust 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. Hejust stands us because he thinks he's got to be polite. "

"But, Mazie, dear, he's so sensitive, and he feels his afflictionkeenly, and--"

"Oh, yes, that's right--stand up for him! I knew you would, " snappedMazie crossly. "And everybody knows it, too--running after him the wayyou do. "

"RUNNING AFTER HIM!" Dorothy's face was scarlet now. 

"Yes, running after him, " reiterated the other incisively; "and youalways have--trotting over there all the time with books and puzzlesand candy and flowers. And--"

"For shame, Mazie!" interrupted Dorothy, with hot indignation. "As iftrying to help that poor blind boy to while away a few hours of histime were RUNNING AFTER HIM. "

"But he doesn't WANT you to while away an hour or two of his time. AndI should think you'd see he didn't. You could if you weren't so deadin love with him, and--"

"Mazie!" gasped Dorothy, aghast. 

"Well, it's so. Anybody can see that--the way you color up every timehis name is mentioned, and the way you look at him, with your heart inyour 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, andvery angry. 

"Well, I don't care. It's so. Everybody knows it. And when a fellowshows so plainly that he'd rather be let alone, how you can keepthrusting 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 nearthe Burton homestead for a week. Neither did the next week nor thenext see her there. Furthermore, though the little stand in her roomhad shown two new picture puzzles and a new game especially designedfor the blind, it displayed them no longer after those remarks ofMazie Sanborn's. Not that Keith had them, however. Indeed, no. Theywere buried deep under a pile of clothing in the farther corner ofDorothy's bottom bureau drawer. 

At the Burton homestead Susan wondered a little at her absence. Sheeven 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 tothrow a keen glance into his face. 

"Now, Keith, I hope you two haven't been quarreling again, " shefrowned anxiously. 

"'Again'! Nonsense, Susan, we never did quarrel. Don't be silly. " Theyouth shifted his position uneasily. 

"I'm thinkin' tain't always me that's silly, " observed Susan, withanother keen glance. "That girl was gettin' so she come over jestnatural-like again, every little while, bringin' in one thing oranother, 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 anattempt at lightness that was very near a failure, he laughed: "Ireckon 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 vowingto 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 ithappened, something occurred that night so all-absorbing and excitingthat even the unexplained absence of Dorothy Parkman became as nothingbeside it. 

With the abrupt suddenness that sometimes makes the long-waited-forevent a real shock, came the news of the death of the poor old womanwhose frail hand had held the wealth that Susan had coveted for DanielBurton and his son. 

The two men left the next morning on the four-hundred-mile journeythat would take them to the town where Nancy Holworthy had lived. 

Scarcely had they left the house before Susan began preparations fortheir home-coming, as befitted their new estate. Her first move was toget out all the best silver and china. She was busy cleaning it whenMrs. 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 hadsent word that he wouldn't be down for a few days. He isn't sick, ishe?--or Keith? I couldn't make out quite all they said; but there wassomethin' 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 vaguelyirritating to Mrs. McGuire. 

"Well, you needn't be so secret about it, Susan, " she began a littlehaughtily. 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'tget some pleasure out of it, though he wouldn't so demean himself asto show it, of course. Mis' Nancy Holworthy is dead, Mis' McGuire. Wehad the signification last night. "

"Not--you don't mean THE Nancy Holworthy--the one that's got themoney!" The excited interest in Mrs. McGuire's face and voice was asgreat as even Susan herself could have desired. 

Susan obviously swelled with the glory of the occasion, though shestill 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 thefuneral?"

"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 theydon'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' fixedbeforehand. 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 andfifty 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 stoppeddlin' peas an' beans over that counter down there, an' retire to alife 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, ormy name ain't Susan Betts. Them two men have got an awful lot to liveup to, an' I mean they shall understand it right away. "

"Which explains this array of china an' silver, I take it, " observedMrs. 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 newestation. 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. Ormaybe you don't know, " she corrected herself, at the odd expressionthat had come to Mrs. McGuire's face. "But I do. Mrs. ProfessorHinkley used to have 'em. They're awful pretty an' stylish, too. Andwe'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 DanielBurton had better be puttin' his money into Liberty Bonds an' RedCross work, instead of silver spoons an' cut-glass, in these war-times. An'--"

"My lan', Mis' McGuire!" With the sudden exclamation Susan had droppedthe spoon she was polishing. Her eyes, wild and incredulous, werestaring straight into the startled eyes of the woman opposite. "Do youknow? Since that yeller telegram came last night tellin' us NancyHolworthy 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 beforeyou all the time. " With a bitter sigh Mrs. McGuire had relaxed in herchair. "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 warevery 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 thelonely 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'skind of good, in a way. I hain't written hardly anything lately; but Idid 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 afretless day an' a worryless day? Wouldn't they be great? An' onlythink what a talkless day'd mean in some households I could mention. Oh, of course, present comp'ny always accentuated, " she hastened toadd with a sly chuckle, as Mrs. McGuire stirred into suddenresentment. 

"Humph!" subsided Mrs. McGuire, still a little resentfully. 

"An' I'm free to confess that there's some kinds of 'less days thatwe've already got plenty of, " went on Susan, after a moment'sthoughtful pause. "There is folks that take quite enough worklessdays, an' laughless days, an' pityless days, an' thankless days. Mylan', there ain't no end to them kind, as any one can see. An' therewas them heatless days last winter--I guess no one was hankerin' formore of THEM. Oh, 'course I understand that that was just preservationof coal, an' that 'twas necessary, an' all that. An' that's anotherthing, too--this preservation business. I'd like to add a few thingsto 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! Is'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 DanielBurton, " she finished with a profound sigh. 

"Do with him?" puzzled Mrs. McGuire. 

"Yes. " Susan picked up the silver spoon and began indifferently topolish it. "'Tain't no use for me to be doin' all this. Daniel Burtonwon't know whether he's eatin' with a silver spoon or one made ofpewter. No more will he retire to a life of ease an' laxity with hispaint-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 oneend to the other every night, after he reads the paper. He's got oneof 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 tokeep it from Keith all he can, for Keith hisself feels so bad 'causehe can't be up an' doin'; an' if he thought he was keepin' his fatherback from helpin', I don't know what the poor boy would do. But Ithink if 'twa'n't for Keith, Daniel Burton would try to enlist an' goover. 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'sstirred him up somethin' awful. "

"Well, who wouldn't it?"

"Oh, I know that; an' I ain't sayin' as how it shouldn't. But thatdon't make it no easier for Daniel Burton to keep his feelin's hidfrom his son, particularly when it's that son that's made him have thefeelin's, partly. There ain't no doubt but that one of the thingsthat's made Daniel Burton so fidgety an' uneasy, an' ready to jestfling hisself into that ravin' conflict over there is his unhappinessan' disappointment over Keith. He had such big plans for that boy!"

"Yes, I know. We all have big plans for--our boys. " Mrs. McGuirechoked and turned away. 

"An' girls, too, for that matter, " hurried on Susan, with a quickglance into the other's face. "An' speakin' of girls, did you seeHattie Turner on the street last night?"

Dumbly Mrs. McGuire answered with a shake of her head. Her eyes hadgone back to her son's face across the yard. 

"Well, I did. Her Charlie's at Camp Devens, you know. They say he'sinvited 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 attendunquestionable entertainments. Well, that's all right an' good, ofcourse, an' as it should be. But I wish somebody'd take up CharlieTurner'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, suddenlysitting erect in her chair. "Hattie Turner isn't fightin' for hercountry. "

"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' itall alone. She's pretty as a picture, an' nothin' but a child when hemarried her four months ago, an' we've took away her natural pervideran' entertainer, an' left her nothin' but her freedom for a ballastwheel. An' I say I wish some of the patriotic people who are jestshowerin' every Charlie Turner with attentions would please sprinklejest 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; "butthere ain't many that thinks of that. "

"There'll be more think of it by an' by--when it's too late, " observedSusan 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 thefuneral of their kinswoman, Mrs. Nancy Holworthy. 

The town, aware now of the stupendous change that had come to thefortunes of the Burton family, stared, gossiped, shook wise heads ofprophecy, then passed on to the next sensation--which happened to bethe return of four soldiers from across the seas; three crippled, oneblinded. 

At the Burton homestead the changes did not seem so stupendous, afterall. True, Daniel Burton had abandoned the peddling of peas and beansacross the counter, and had, at the earnest solicitation of his son, got out his easel and placed a fresh canvas upon it; but he obviouslyworked half-heartedly, and he still roamed the house after reading theevening paper, and spent even more time before the great war map onhis studio wall. 

True, also, disgruntled tradesmen no longer rang peremptory peals onthe doorbell, and the postman's load of bills on the first of themonth was perceptibly decreased. The dinner-table, too, bore evidencethat a scanty purse no longer controlled the larder, but no new chinaor cut-glass graced the board, and Susan's longed-for bouillon spoonshad never materialized. Locks and doors and sagging blinds hadreceived prompt attention, and already the house was being preparedfor a new coat of paint; but no startling alterations or improvementswere promised by the evidence, and Keith was still to be seen almostdaily on the McGuire back porch, as before, or on his own, with JohnMcGuire. 

It is no wonder, surely, that very soon the town ceased to stare andgossip, or even to shake wise heads of prophecy. 

Nancy Holworthy's death was two months in the past when one day Keithcame home from John McGuire's back porch in very evident excitementand agitation. 

"Why, Keith, what's the matter? What IS the matter?" demanded Susanconcernedly. 

"Nothing. That is, I--I did not know I acted as if anything was thematter, " stammered the youth. 

"Well, you do. Now, tell me, what is it?"

"Nothing, nothing, Susan. Nothing you can help. " Keith was pacing backand forth and up and down the living-room, not even using his cane todefine the familiar limits of his pathway. Suddenly he turned andstopped 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 thereto help. He told me how they held it--the little clump of trees thatmeant so much to US, and how one by one they fell--those brave fellowswith him. I could see it. I could hear it. I could hear the horrid dinof the guns and shells, and the crash of falling trees about us; andthe 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 mancounted there--counted for, oh, so much!--for at the last there wasjust one man left---John McGuire. And to hear him tell it--it waswonderful, wonderful!"

"I know, I know, " nodded Susan. "It was like his letters--you couldSEE things. He MADE you see 'em. An' that's what he always did--madeyou see things--even when he was a little boy. His mother told me. Hewanted to write, you know. He was goin' to be a writer, before--thishappened. An' now---" The sentence trailed off into the silenceunfinished. 

"And to think of all that to-day being wasted on a blind baby tied toa picture puzzle, " moaned Keith, resuming his nervous pacing of theroom. "If only a man--a real man could have heard him--one that couldgo and do a man's work--! Why, Susan, that story, as he told it, wouldmake a stone fight. I never heard anything like it. I never supposedthere 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 somany who need just that message to stir them from their smugcomplacency--men who could fight, and win: men who WOULD fight, andwin, if only they could see and hear and know, as I saw and heard andknew this afternoon. And there it was, wasted, WASTED, worse thanwasted on--me!"

Chokingly Keith turned away, but with a sudden cry Susan caught hisarm. 

"No, no, Keith, it wasn't wasted--you mustn't let it be wasted, " shepanted. "Listen! You want others to hear it--what you heard--don'tyou?"

"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'salways wanted to. Then publish it in a book, so everybody can see itand hear it, as you did. "

"Oh, Susan, if we only could!" A dawning hope had come into KeithBurton'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 hecan't write at all. He's only begun to practice a little bit. He'dnever get it down, with the fire and the vim in it, learning to writeas he'd have to. What do you suppose Lincoln's Gettysburg Speech wouldhave been if he'd had to stop to learn how to spell and to write eachword before he could put it down?"

"I know, I know, " nodded Susan. "It's that way with me in my poetry. Ijest HAVE to get right ahead while the fuse burns, an' spell 'emsomehow, anyhow, so's to get 'em down while I'm in the fit of it. Hecouldn'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 beginto do it fast enough to keep up with him, and 't would spoil it all tohave to ask him to slow down. When a man's got a couple of Huns comingstraight for him, and he knows he's got to get 'em both at once, youcan't very well sing out: 'Here, wait--wait a minute till I get thatlast 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 DanielBurton. His step was slow, his head was bowed. He looked like anythingbut the happy possessor of new wealth. Susan frowned as she watchedhim. 

"I wish your father---" she began. Suddenly she stopped. A new lighthad 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. "Hedoesn't know shorthand, but he--he's got eyes" (Keith's voice broke alittle) "and he could SEE what he was doing, and he could take downenough 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 seeanybody 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, " sheprotested 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 towrite, an' John wouldn't know a thing about it; an'--"

"Yes, you're quite right--John wouldn't know a thing about it, " brokein Keith, with a passion so sudden and bitter that Susan fell back indismay. 

"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 youreally think I'd cheat that poor fellow into talking to me justbecause he hadn't eyes to see that I wasn't the only one in hisaudience!"

"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 foolof, just because he couldn't see!"

"No, he wouldn't mind, " persisted Susan stoutly. "It wouldn't be amean listenin', nor sneak listenin'. It wouldn't be listenin' tothings 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 andcheated into thinking the girl that was reading and talking to me andplaying games with me was a girl I had never known before--a girl whowas what she pretended to be, a new friend doing it all because shewanted 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 subjectmyself, and it was my fault; but when I heard you say John McGuirewould 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 mindthat now, Susan; only you'll--you'll have to understand I mean what Isay. 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 startedto 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 momentsuspended. "And he'd even be helping us to win out--over there; for ifwe could get that story of his on paper as he told it to me, thefellow that reads it wouldn't need any recruiting station to send himover there. If there was only a way that father could--"

"There is, an' we'll find it, " interposed Susan eagerly. "I know wewill. An' Keith, it's goin' to be 'most as good for him as it is forJohn 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 givingup his job that's made him nervous, Susan, as you and I both know verywell. However, we'll see. And you may be sure if there is a way I'llfind it, Susan, " he finished a bit wearily, as he turned to goupstairs. 

CHAPTER XXVIII

THE WAY

Keith was still looking for "the way, " when October came, bringingcrisp days and chilly winds. When not too cold, the boys still sat outof doors. When it was too cold, John McGuire did not appear at all onhis back porch, and Keith did not have the courage to make a boldadvance to the McGuire door and ask admittance. There came a day, however, when a cold east wind came up after they were wellestablished in their porch chairs for the morning. They were on theBurton porch this time, and Keith suddenly determined to take the bullby the horns. 

"Brrr! but it's cold this morning, " he shivered blithely. "What sayyou? Let's go in. Come on. " And without waiting for acquiescence, hecaught John McGuire's arm in his own and half pulled him to his feet. Before John McGuire knew then quite what was happening, he foundhimself 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 gaveit up, and I'll bet you'll have to, " he finished, thrusting apasteboard box into his visitor's hands and nicely adjudging thedistance a small table must be pushed in order to bring itconveniently in front of John McGuire's chair. 

The quick tightening of John McGuire's lips and the proud lifting ofhis chin told that Keith's challenge had been accepted even before thelaconic answer came. 

"Oh, you do, do you? Well, we'll see whether I'll have to give it upor not. "

John McGuire loved picture puzzles, as Keith Burton well knew. 

It was easy after that. Keith took it so unhesitatingly for grantedthat they were to go indoors when it was cold that John McGuire foundit difficult to object; and it was not long before the two boys weregoing back and forth between the two houses with almost as much easeas if their feet had been guided by the eye instead of by the tap of aslender stick. 

John McGuire was learning a great deal from Keith these days, thoughit is doubtful if he realized it. It is doubtful, also, if he realizedhow constantly he was being made to talk of the war and of hisexperience 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 whenhe deemed the time had come to try to carry it out. 

They were in his own home living-room. It had been a wonderful storythat John McGuire had told that day of a daring excursion into NoMan's Land, and what came of it. Upstairs in the studio Daniel Burtonwas sitting alone, as Keith knew. Keith drew a long breath and madethe plunge. Springing to his feet he turned toward the door that ledinto the hall. 

"McGuire, that was a bully story--a corking good story. I want dad tohear it. Wait, I'll get him. " And he was out of the room with the doorfast closed behind him before John McGuire could so much as draw abreath. 

Upstairs, Daniel Burton, already in the secret, heard Keith's eagersummons and came at once. For some days he had been expecting justsuch an urgent call from Keith's lips. He knew too much to delay. Hewas 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 gohome, and at once. But Daniel Burton paid no attention to that. Hecame straight toward him and took his hand. 

"I call this mighty good of you, McGuire, " he said. "My boy here hasbeen raving about your stories of the war until I'm fairly green withenvy. Now I'm to hear a bit of them myself, he says. I wish you wouldtell me some of your experiences, my lad. You know a chance like thisis a real god-send to us poor stay-at-homes. Now fire away! I'mready. "

But John McGuire was not ready. True, he sat down--but not until aftera confused "No, no, I must go home--that is, really, they're not worthrepeating--those stories. " And he would not talk at all--at first. 

Daniel Burton talked, however. He talked of wars in general and of theCivil War in particular; and he told the stories of Antietam andGettysburg as they had been told to him by his father. Then fromGettysburg 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 wholesentence, sometimes only a word or two. But there was no fire, noenthusiasm, no impetuous rush of words that brought the very din ofbattle to their ears. And not once did Daniel Burton thrust hisfingers into his pocket for his pencil and notebook. Yet, when it wasall over, and John McGuire had gone home, Keith dropped into his chairwith a happy sigh. 

"It wasn't much, dad, I know, " he admitted, "but it was something. Itwas a beginning, and a beginning is something--with John McGuire. "

And it was something; for the next time Daniel Burton entered theroom, John McGuire did not even start from his chair. He gave a faintsmile of welcome, too, and he talked sooner, and talked more--thoughthere was little of war talk; and for the second time Daniel Burtondid 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 startedit. They knew only that a sudden light as of a flame leaped into JohnMcGuire's face--and he was back in the trenches of France and carryingthem with him. 

At the second sentence Daniel Burton's fingers were in his pocket, andat the third his pencil was racing over the paper at breakneck speed. There was no pause then, no time for thought, no time for carefulforming of words and letters. There was only the breakneck racebetween a bit of lead and an impassioned tongue; and when it was allover, there were only a well-nigh hopeless-looking mass ofhieroglyphics in Daniel Burton's notebook--and the sweat of spentexcitement on the brows of two youths and a man. 

"Gee! we got it that time!" breathed Keith, after John McGuire hadgone home. 

"Yes; only I was wondering if I had really--got it, " murmured DanielBurton, eyeing a bit ruefully the confused mass of words and lettersin his notebook. "Still, I reckon I can dig it out all right--if I doit right away, " he finished confidently. And he did dig it out beforehe slept that night. 

If Daniel Burton and his son Keith thought the thing was done, and itwas going to be easy sailing thereafter, they found themselves greatlymistaken. John McGuire scarcely said five sentences about the war thenext time they were together, though Daniel Burton had his pencilpoised expectantly from the start. He said only a little more the nexttime, 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 inthe morning paper acted like a match to gunpowder, and sent JohnMcGuire off into a rapid-fire story that whipped Daniel Burton'spencil from his pocket and set it to racing again at breakneck speedto 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 withnow and then a casual comment or a tactful question to lure the hidingstory out into the open. Little by little, as the frank comradeship ofDaniel Burton won its way, John McGuire was led to talk more and morefreely; and by Christmas the eager scribe was in possession of a verycomplete record of John McGuire's war experiences, dating even fromthe early days of his enlistment. 

Day by day, as he had taken down the rough notes, Daniel Burton hadfollowed it up with a careful untangling and copying before he had hada chance to forget, or to lose the wonderful glow born of theimpassioned telling. Then, from time to time he had sorted the notesand arranged them in proper sequence, until now he had a completestory, logical and well-rounded. 

It was on Christmas Day that he read the manuscript to Keith. At itsconclusion 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 youread it, dad. I could HEAR him. "

"Could you, really? I'm glad. That makes me know I've succeeded. Nowfor a publisher!"

"You wouldn't publish it without his--knowing?"

"Certainly not. But I'm going to let a publisher see it, before heknows. "

"Y-yes, perhaps. "

"Why, Keith, I'd have to do that. Do you suppose I'd run the risk ofits being turned down, and then have to tell that boy that he couldn'thave 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 alittle doubtfully. 

They had not long to wait, after all. In a remarkably short time cameback word from the publishers. Most emphatically they wanted the book, and they wanted it right away. Moreover, the royalty they offered wasso good that it sent Daniel Burton down the stairs two steps at a timelike a boy, in his eagerness to reach Keith with the good news. 

"And now for John!" he cried excitedly, as soon as Keith's joyousexclamations over the news were uttered. "Come, let's go across now. "

"But, dad, how--how are you going to tell him?" Keith was holding backa little. 

"Tell him! I'm just going to tell him, " laughed the man. "That'seasy. "

"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'tsee 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 apicture or two when I'm not looking. Come, we're keeping Johnwaiting. " And he took firm hold of his son's arm. 

Yet in the McGuire living-room, in the presence of John McGuirehimself, he talked fully five minutes of nothing in particular, beforehe 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 outin the spring. "

"I'm going to--WHAT?"

"Have a book out--war stories. They were too good to keep toourselves, John, so I jotted them down as you told them, and last weekI sent them off to a publisher. "

"A--a real publisher?" The boy's voice shook. Every trace of color haddrained from his face. 

"You bet your life--and one of the biggest in the country. " DanielBurton's own voice was shaking. He had turned his eyes away from JohnMcGuire's face. 

"And they'll--print it?"

"Just as soon as ever you'll sign the contract. And, by the way, thatcontract 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 tohis face. 

"But I can't seem to quite--believe it, " he faltered. 

"Nonsense! Simplest thing in the world, " insisted Daniel Burtonbrusquely. "They saw the stories, liked them, and are going to publishthem. That's all. "

"All! ALL!" The blind boy was on his feet, his face working withemotion. "When all my life I've dreamed and dreamed and longed for---"He stopped short and sat down. He had the embarrassed air thehabitually reserved person usually displays when caught red-handedmaking a "scene. " He gave a confused laugh. "I was only thinking--whata way. You see--I'd always wanted to be a writer, but I'd given it uplong ago. I had my living to earn, and I knew I couldn't earn it--thatway--not at first. I used to say I'd give anything if I could write abook; and I was just wondering if--if I'd been willing then to havegiven--my eyes!"

CHAPTER XXIX

DOROTHY TRIES HER HAND

It was on a mild day early in February that Susan met Dorothy Parkmanon the street. She stopped her at once. 

"Well, if I ain't glad to see you!" she cried. "I didn't know you'dgot back. "

"I haven't been back long, Susan. "

"You hain't been over to see us once, Miss Dorothy, " Susan reproachedher. 

"I--I have been very busy. " Miss Dorothy seemed ill at ease, andanxious to get away. 

"An' you didn't come for a long, long time when you was here lastfall. " Susan had laid a detaining hand on the girl's arm now. 

"Didn't I?" Miss Dorothy smiled brightly. "Well, perhaps I didn't. Butyou didn't need me, anyway. I've heard all about it--the splendid workMr. 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 sayit's wonderful, the change in him already. He's so proud an' happy tothink he's done it--not sinfully proud, you understand, but justhumbly 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 awfulglad. But it's Keith hisself that I'm thinkin' of. You see, onlyyesterday I found him--cryin'. "

"Crying!" Miss Dorothy seemed to have forgotten all about her haste toget away. She had Susan's arm in HER grasp now. She had pulled her toone 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. 'Twas a real pretty one, too, if I do say it as shouldn't--the best Iever done; all about how fame an' beauty an' pleasure didn't countnothin' beside workin'. I got the idea out of something I found in amagazine. 'T was jest grand; an' it give me the perspiration rightaway 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 histakin' it nohow wrong; but after Mis' McGuire had gone home (she cameout an' set with me a spell first in the kitchen) I heard a queerlittle noise in the settin'-room, an' I went an' looked in. Keith wasat the table, his arms flung straight out in front of him, an' hishead 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 letthat poor lamb know I see him cryin'? Well, I guess not! I backed outas soft as a feather bed, an' I didn't go near that settin'-room foran 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 onthe table when I come out with Mis' McGuire. 'I found this paper onthe 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 anotherword. 

"Well, I didn't know then that't was the poem he'd been cryin' over. Ididn't know--till this mornin'. Then somethin' he said made me seeright 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 itright here. I'm tryin' to memorialize it, so I keep it with me all thetime, an' repeat one line over an' over till I get it. It's right herein my bag. You'll find it's the best I've wrote, Miss Dorothy; I'msure you will, " she went on a bit wistfully. "You see I used a lot ofthe words that was in the magazine--not that I pleasurized it any, ofcourse. 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', " shefinished, taking a sheet of note-paper from her bag and carefullyspreading 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 eyesfrom the last line of the poem, "I don't see what there is about thatto make Mr. Keith--cry. "

"No, I didn't, till this mornin'; an' then--Well, Keith came out intothe 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 sayanything, of course. I did begin this mornin' to talk about JohnMcGuire an' how fine it was he'd got somethin' he could do. Ithought't would take the poor boy's mind off hisself, if I could gethim talkin' about John McGuire---he's been SO interested in John allwinter! An' so glad he could help him. You know he's always so wantedto HELP somebody hisself instead of always havin' somebody helpin'him. But, dear me, instead of its bein' a quieter now for him, it wasa regular stirrup. 

"'That's just it, that's just it, Susan, ' he moans. 'You've got tohave 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. Butwhere'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 waythem two men got hold of John McGuire. You know John wouldn't speak toanybody, not anybody, till Keith an' his father found some way to geton 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' hewas glad, of course; but that was only a little bit of a thing, an' 'twas all past an' gone, an' John didn't need 'em any more, an' therewasn't anything left for him now at all. Oh, Miss Dorothy, he talkedawfully. I never heard him run on so. An' I knew, from a lot of itthat he said, that he was thinkin' of that poem--he wouldn't ask forwealth or beauty or fame, or anything, an' that there didn't anythingcount but labor. You see?"

"Yes, I--see. " Miss Dorothy's voice was very low. Her face was turnedquite 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'reboth as nervous as witches, what with the war an' all, an' they notbein' able to do anything. Oh, they do give money--lots of it--LibertyBonds an' Red Cross, an' drives, of course. You knew they'd got itnow--their money, didn't you, Miss Dorothy?"

"Yes, I had heard so. "

"Not that it seems to do 'em any particular good, " complained Susanwistfully. "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 findsomethin'--"

"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'llhelp some--it'll help a lot. "

But Miss Dorothy did not seem to have heard. At least she did notanswer. Yet not twenty-four hours later she was ringing the Burtons'doorbell. 

"No, no--not there! I want to see YOU, " she panted a littlebreathlessly, 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, " insistedDorothy. 

And without further ado, but with rebellious lips and eyes, Susan ledthe way to the kitchen. 

"Susan, I have a scheme, I think, that may help out Mr. Keith, " beganthe young girl abruptly. "I'll have to begin by telling you somethingof what I've seen during these last two or three months, while I'vebeen away. A Mr. Wilson, an old college friend of my father's, hasbeen taking a lot of interest in the blind--especially since the war. He got to thinking of the blinded soldiers and wishing he could helpthem. He had seen some of them in Canada, and talked with them. Whathe thought of first for them was brooms, and basket-weaving and chair-caning, same as everybody does. But he found they had a perfect horrorof those things. They said nobody bought such things except out ofpity--they'd rather have the machine-made kind. And these men didn'twant things bought of them out of pity. You see, they were big, well, strong, young fellows, like John McGuire here; and they were gropingaround, trying to find a way to live all those long years of darknessthat they knew were ahead of them. They didn't have any especialtalent. But they wanted to work, --do something that was necessary--notbe charity folks, as they called it. "

"I know, " responded Susan sympathetically. 

"Well, this Mr. Wilson is at the head of a big electrical machinerymanufacturing company near Chicago, like Mr. Sanborn's here, you know. And suddenly one day it came to him that he had the very thing rightin his own shop--a necessary kind of work that the blind could betaught to do. "

"My lan', what was it? Think of blind folks goin' to work in a bigshop like Tom Sanborn's!"

"I know it. But there was something. It was wrapping the coils of wirewith tape. Mr. Wilson said they used hundreds of thousands of thesecoils all the time, and they had to be wrapped to insulate them. Itwas this work that he believed the blind could learn to do. Anyhow, hedetermined to try it. And try it he did. He sent for those soldiers hehad talked with in Canada, and he took two or three of father'spatients, and opened a little winding-room with a good electricalengineer in charge. And, do you know? it was wonderful, the way thosepoor fellows took hold of that work! Why, they got really skillful inno 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 roomon the ground floor of an office building. He didn't put them in hisshop. He said he wanted to keep them separate, for the present, anyway. It had two or three long tables, and the superintendent movedup and down the room overseeing their work, and helping where it wasnecessary. There was a new man that morning, and it was perfectlywonderful how he took hold of it. And they were all so happy, laughingand talking, and having the best time ever; but they sobered up realearnest when Mr. Wilson introduced one or two of them to me. One manin particular--he was one of the soldiers, a splendid, great, blondfellow six feet tall, and only twenty-one--told me what this workmeant to them; how glad they were to feel of real use in the world. Then his face flushed, and his shoulders straightened a bit. 'Andwe're even helping a little to win the war, ' he said, 'for these coilswe are winding now are for some armatures to go in some big motorsthat are going to be used in making munitions. So you see, we arehelping--a little. ' Bless his heart! He didn't know how much he washelping every one, just by his big, brave courage. 

"Well, Susan, all this gave me an idea, after what you said yesterdayabout Mr. Keith. And I wondered--why couldn't he wind coils, too? Andmaybe he'd get others to do it also. So I went to Mr. Sanborn, andhe's perfectly willing to let us give it a trial. He's pleased andinterested, and says he will furnish everything for the experiment, including a first-class engineer to superintend; only he can't spendany time over it himself, and we'll have to get somebody else to takecharge and make arrangements, about the place, and the starting of it, and all that. And, Susan, now comes my second idea. Could we--do yousuppose 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 beenhearing everywhere how wonderfully he got hold of John McGuire. "

"He did, he did, " cried Susan, "an' he was like a different man allthe 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 askhim. "

"Good! Then I will. Is--is he at home to-day?"

"Yes, he's upstairs. I'll call him. " Susan sprang to her feet withalacrity. 

"But, Susan, just a minute!" Miss Dorothy had put out a detaininghand. "Is--is Mr. Keith here, too?"

"Yes, both of 'em. Keith is in the settin'-room an' I'll call hisfather down. 'T won't take but jest a minute. " Susan was plainlychafing at the detaining hand. 

"No, no, Susan!" Miss Dorothy, too, had sprung to her feet. "If--ifMr. 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, asSusan began to frown her disappointment. 

"But I don't see why, " argued Susan, her disapproving eyes on thegirl's flushed cheeks. "I should think you'd want to talk it up withboth 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 lessso. "I would rather--er--that is, I think it would be better to askMr. Daniel Burton first, and then after we get it well started let himtell his son. So I'll come to-morrow in the morning--at ten. Mr. Keithis with Mr. John McGuire, then, isn't he? And over at his house? Iheard 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, PLEASEkeep it from Mr. Keith, Susan. Truly, I don't want him to know a thingabout it till his father and I have--have got it all fixed up, " shefinished. 

"But, Miss Dorothy, I know that Keith would want---"

"Susan!" With an imperiousness quite foreign to her usual manner, MissDorothy 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 stillmutinous. 

"Good! Thank you, Susan. Then I'll come to-morrow at ten, " nodded MissDorothy, once again her smiling, gracious self, as she turned to leavethe room. 

CHAPTER XXX

DANIEL BURTON'S "JOB"

Dorothy came at ten, or, to be strictly accurate, at five minutes pastten. The additional five minutes had been consumed by her going out ofher way around the block so that she might see if Keith were visiblein one of the McGuires' windows. He was visible--and when she went upthe Burton walk at five minutes past ten, her step was confident andher 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'thave to worry about him. " Susan's eyes were still mutinous, her voicestill 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 frigidityMiss Dorothy's stammering tongue came to a painful pause. 

"Humph!" vouchsafed Susan. "Well, come in, an' I'll tell Mr. DANIELBurton you're here. "

That the emphasis on "Daniel" was not lost was shown by the suddenbroad smile that chased away the confusion on Miss Dorothy's face, asSusan led the way to the living-room. Two minutes later Daniel Burton, thinner, paler, and more worn-looking than Dorothy had ever seen himbefore, entered the room and held out a cordial hand. 

"Good-morning, Miss Dorothy. I'm glad to see you, " he said. "What isit, --Red Cross, Y. M. C. A. , Smileage Books?" The whimsical smile on hislips 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 thegirl 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. " DanielBurton's hand had already reached for his check-book. "Any project ofyours, 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'lltake 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 asbeing much benefit to any sort of project. However, I shall be glad tohear about it, of course. What is it?"

And Miss Dorothy told him. With her eyes shining, and her voicequivering with eagerness, she told the story as she had told it toSusan the afternoon before, but with even greater elaboration ofdetail. 

"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 wholething. Oh, yes, I know it's a whole lot to ask, " she hurried on, asshe 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'dcrawl 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 knowthe tape from the coils--or whatever they are. "

"Oh, we'd have an engineer for that part, of course, " interposed thegirl 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 herealizes it. I want him to learn to wind them himself, and thus getothers 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 interestand 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, JohnMcGuire wouldn't have any book out this spring if it weren't for youand--your eyes. "

"Hm-m, perhaps not. Still there'd have been a way, probably. But evenif I grant that--all you say in the case of John McGuire--that isn'twinding 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 thisproject of yours a FAILURE from the start, do you?" Words, voice, manner, and gesture were unmistakable. All the longing and heartacheand bitterness of years of fruitless effort and final disappointmentpulsated through that one word FAILURE. 

For a moment nobody spoke. Daniel Burton had got to his feet andcrossed the room to the window. The girl, watching him withcompassionate eyes as he stood looking out, had caught her breath witha little choking sigh. Suddenly she lifted her head resolutely. 

"Mr. Burton, you've got one gift that--that I don't believe yourealize at all that you possess. Like John McGuire you can make folksSEE what you are talking about. Perhaps it's because you can paintpictures with a brush. Or--or perhaps it's because you've got such awonderful command of words. "(Miss Dorothy stumbled a littleprecipitately into this sentence--she had not failed to see thedisdainful movement of the man's head and shoulders at the mention ofhis pictures. ) "Whatever it is, " she hurried on, "you've got it. I sawit first years ago, with--with your son, when I used to see him atfather's. He would sit and talk to me by the hour about the woods andfields and mountains, the sunsets and the flowers back home; andlittle by little I found out that they were the pictures you drew forhim--on the canvas of his soul. You've done it again now for JohnMcGuire. Do you suppose you could have caught those wonderful storiesof his with your pencil, if you hadn't been able to help him visualizethem for himself--you and Keith together with your wonderfulenthusiasm and interest?

"I know you couldn't. And that's what I want you now for--you and yourson. Because he is blind, and knows, and understands, as no seeingperson can know and understand, they will trust him; they will followwhere he leads. But behind him has got to be YOU. You've got to be theeyes for--for them all; not to teach the work--we'll have others forthat. Any good mechanic will do for that part. But it's the other partof it--the soul of the thing. These men, lots of them, are but littlemore than boys--big, strong, strapping fellows with the whole of lifebefore them. And they are--blind. Whichever way they turn a big blackcurtain shuts them in. And it's those four black curtains that I wantyou to paint. I want you to give them something to look at, somethingto think of, something to live for. And you can do it. And when youhave done it, you'll find they're the best and--and the biggestpictures you ever painted. " Her voice broke with the last word andchoked into silence. 

Over at the window the man stood motionless. One minute, two minutespassed. Then a bit abruptly he turned, crossed the room to the girl'sside, 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 thesmile nor the lightness of his manner quite hid the shake in his voicenor 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 youdidn't--now. I--I think we'd better get it a little farther alongbefore we tell him. There's a whole lot to do, you know--getting theroom and the materials and the superintendent, and all that; and thereisn'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 ofboys from Hillsboro. I had a letter yesterday from the father of oneof the boys, asking what to do with his son. He thought because of--ofKeith, that I could help him. It was a pitiful letter. The man washeart-broken and utterly at sea. His boy--only nineteen--had come homeblind, and well-nigh crazed with the tragedy of it. And the fatherdidn't know which way to turn. That's why he had appealed to me. Yousee, on account of Keith--"

"Yes, I understand, " said the girl gently, as the man left hissentence unfinished. 

"I've had others, too--several of them--in the last few weeks. Ifyou'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 worthit, I think. "

"Of course they will, " she cried eagerly. "They'll be just exactlywhat we want, and I'm not in a bit of a hurry, " she finished, droppingback in her chair as the door closed behind him. 

Alone, she looked about the room, her eyes wistful, brimming withunshed tears. Over by the window was Keith's chair, before it thetable, with a half-completed picture puzzle spread upon it. Near thetable was a set of shelves containing other picture puzzles, games, and books--all, as the girl well knew, especially designed andconstructed for eyes that could not see. 

She had risen to her feet and half started to cross the room towardthe table when the door to the side hall opened and Keith Burtonentered the room. 

With a half-stifled gasp the girl stepped back to her chair. The blindboy 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 elsewas the attempted deception as to one's presence in the room. 

Miss Dorothy gave a confused little laugh, and put her hand to herthroat. 

"Why, Keith, it's only I! Don't look so--"

"You?" For one brief moment his face lighted up as with a hiddenflame; then instantly it changed. It became like the gray of ashesafter 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--ifI haven't eyes. "

"Nonsense, Keith!" She laughed again confusedly, though her own facehad 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 fellowuncertainly. "Nobody called me. I beg your pardon if--" He came to ahelpless pause. 

"Not a bit of it! You needn't. It wasn't necessary at all. " The girltossed off the words with a lightness so forced that it was almostflippancy. "You see, I didn't come to see you at all. It was yourfather. "

"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 goneupstairs for some letters. He's coming right back--right back. "

"Oh-h!" Was it an indefinable something in her voice, or was it therepetition of the last two words? Whatever it was that caused it, Keith turned away with a jerk, walked with the swift sureness of longfamiliarity straight to the set of shelves and took down a book. "ThenI'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 ofhis 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 eyeslooking after him!

CHAPTER XXXI

WHAT SUSAN DID NOT SEE

There was apparently no limit to Daniel Burton's enthusiasticcooperation with Dorothy Parkman on the matter of establishing aworkroom for the blind. He set to work with her at once. The very nextmorning after her initial visit, he went with her to Mazie Sanborn'sfather, and together they formulated the first necessary plans. 

Thomas Sanborn was generous, and cordially enthusiastic, though hiswords and manner carried the crisp terseness of the busy man whosetime is money. At the end of five minutes he summoned one David Patchto the office, and introduced him to Miss Dorothy and Daniel Burton asone 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 hisstenographer for dictation. "Just step into that room there and stayas long as you like. Whatever Patch says I'll back up. You'll find himthoroughly capable and trustworthy. And now good luck to you, " hefinished, throwing wide the door of the adjoining room. 

The next moment Miss Dorothy and Daniel Burton found themselves alonewith the keen-eyed, alert little man who had been introduced as DavidPatch. And David Patch did, indeed, appear to be very capable. Heevidently understood his business, and he gave interested attention toMiss Dorothy's story of what she had seen, and of what she wished nowto try to do. He took them then for a tour of the great shop, especially to the department where the busy fingers were winding withtape the thousands of wire coils. 

Miss Dorothy's eyes sparkled with excitement, and she fairly clappedher hands in her delight, while Daniel Burton said that even he couldsee the possibilities of that kind of work for their purpose. 

At the end of a long hour of talking and planning, Miss Dorothy andDaniel Burton started for home. But even then Daniel Burton had yetmore to say, for at his gate, which was on Miss Dorothy's way home, hebegged her to come in for a moment. 

"I had another letter to-day about a blind soldier--this time fromBaltimore. I want to show it to you. You see, so many write to me, onaccount of my own boy. You will come in, just a minute?"

"Why, yes, of course I--will. " The pause, and the half-stifled wordthat finished the sentence came as the tall figure of Keith Burtonturned 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 precipitateas to make her almost choke. 

"Miss Parkman?" Once again, for a moment, Keith's face lighted as witha 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 ofMarch. "

"No, she can't go and sun herself with you, " interposed Daniel Burtonwith mock severity. "She's coming with me into the house. I want toshow her something. "

"Well, I--I like that, " retorted the youth. He spoke jauntily, andgave a short little laugh. But the light had died from his face and aslow red had crept to his forehead. 

"Well, she can't. She's coming with me, " reiterated the man. "Now runback 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 heclosed the hall door. 

"Quite right. No, I don't want him to know yet. There's so much to bedone to get started, and he'd want to help. And he couldn't help aboutthat part; and't would only fret him and make him unhappy. "

"My idea exactly, " nodded the man. "When we get the room, and thegoods 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 evidentlynot noticing the change in the pronoun. "Now, if you'll wait a minuteI'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 wereout on the piazza again. But Miss Dorothy said "No, no!" very hastilywhen he urged her to go around on the other side; and she added, "Ireally must go home now, " as she hurried down the steps. Daniel Burtonwent then around the corner of the piazza to explain her absence tohis son Keith. But he need not have hurried. His son Keith was notthere. 

For all the good progress that was made on that first day, thingsseemed to move a bit slowly after that. To begin with, the matter ofselecting a suitable room gave no little difficulty. The right room inthe right location seemed not to be had; and Daniel Burton evensuggested that they use some room in his own house. But after a littlethought he gave up this idea as being neither practical nor desirable. 

Meanwhile he was in daily communication with Dorothy Parkman, and thetwo spent hours together, thrashing out the different problems one byone as they arose, sometimes at her home, more frequently at his; for"home" to Dorothy in Hinsdale meant the Sanborn house, where Mazie wasalways in evidence--and Daniel Burton did not care for Mazie. Especially he did not care for her advice and assistance on theproblems that were puzzling him now. 

To be sure, at his own home there was Keith; but he contrived to avoidKeith on most occasions. Besides, Keith himself seemed quite inclinedto keep out of the way (particularly if he heard the voice of DorothyParkman), which did not disturb Daniel Burton in the least, under thecircumstances. Until they got ready to tell Keith, he was rather gladthat he did keep so conveniently out of the way. And as Dorothy seemedalways glad to avoid seeing Keith or talking to him, there was reallyvery little trouble on that score; and they could have theirconsultations in peace and quietness. 

And there were so many of them--those consultations! When at last theroom was found, there were the furnishings to select, and the finalplans to be made for the real work to be done. David Patch provedhimself to be invaluable then. As if by magic a long table appeared, and the coils and the tape, and all the various paraphernalia of aproperly equipped winding-room marched smoothly into place. Meanwhilethree 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-roomwith Keith. But Dorothy Parkman was nowhere in sight. He waited ten, fifteen minutes; then he told Keith the story of the room, and of whatthey hoped to do there, fuming meanwhile within himself because he hadto tell it alone. 

But it was not lack of interest that kept Miss Dorothy away. It couldnot have been; for that very afternoon she sought Daniel Burton outand asked eagerly what his son had said, and how he had taken it. Andher eyes shone and her breath quickened at the story Daniel Burtontold; and so eager was she to know every little word that had fallenfrom Keith's lips that she kept Daniel Burton repeating over and overeach minute detail. 

Yet the next day when Keith and four other blind youths began work inearnest, she never once went near Keith's chair, though she went oftento the others, dropping here and there a word of encouragement or atouch of aiding fingers. When night came, however, and she found anopportunity for a few words alone with Daniel Burton, she told himthat, in her opinion, Keith had done the best work of the five, andthat it was perfectly marvelous the way he was taking hold. And againher eyes sparkled and her breath quickened; and she spent the entireten minutes talking about Keith to his father. Yet the next day, whenthe work began again, she still went to the back of every chair butKeith's. 

Things happened very rapidly after that. It was not a week before thefirst long table in the big room was filled with eager workers, andthe second one had to be added to take care of the newcomers. 

The project was already the talk of the town, and not the leastexcited and interested of the observers was John McGuire's mother. When the news came of the second table's being added to the equipmentof 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 doneyesterday, an' I copied it for you. I think it's the best yet, " shebeamed, handing over a folded paper. "It's kind of long, so don't stopto read it now. Say, is it true? Have they had to put in another tableat that blind windin'-room?"

"They have. "

"Well, if that ain't the greatest! I think it's just grand. They tookmy John down there to see the place yesterday. Do you know? That boyis 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 yourwonderful Keith an' his father. I wouldn't ever have believed it ofthem. "

Susan's chin came up a bit. 

"I would. I KNEW. An' I always told you that Daniel Burton was asuperlative man in every way, an' his son's jest like him. Only youwouldn't believe me. "

"Nobody'd believe you, " maintained Mrs. McGuire spiritedly. "Nobody'dbelieve 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'sperfectly marvelous what Keith an' his father are doin' with those menan' boys. Aren't they awful happy over it--Keith an' his father, Imean?"

"Daniel Burton is. Why, he's like a different man, Mis' McGuire. You'dknow that, jest to see him walk, an' hear him speak. An' I don't hearnothin' more about his longin' to get over there. I guess he thinkshe's got work enough to do right here. An' he hardly ever touches hiswar 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, Idon'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, " addedMrs. 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'tpossible, with eyes in your head, that you hain't seen!"

"Seen what?"

"Well, my lan'! With that girl throwin' herself at Daniel Burton'shead for the last six weeks, an' you calmly set there an' ask 'seenwhat?'!"

"Daniel Burton--Dorothy Parkman!" There was no mistaking Susan'sdumfounded amazement. 

"Yes, Daniel Burton an' Dorothy Parkman. Oh, I used to think it wasKeith; but when the money came to old Daniel I guess she thought hewasn't so old, after all. Besides, Keith, with his handicap--youcouldn't blame the girl, after all, I s'pose. "

"Daniel Burton an' Dorothy Parkman!" repeated Susan, this time withthe 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 shegets!"

"But, they--they've been makin' plans for--for the work, " murmuredSusan. 

"Work! Well, I guess it no need to've taken quite so manyconsultations for just the work. Besides, she never thought of such ascheme 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 yournose 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 frownon her face; then with a sigh and a shrug, as if throwing off anincomprehensible burden, she opened the paper Mrs. McGuire had leftwith her. 

Once, twice, three times she read the verses; then with a low chuckleshe folded up the paper, tucked it into her apron pocket, and rose toher feet. A minute later she had attacked the pile of dishes in thesink, 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 wason Saturday afternoon that Susan found Keith sitting idle-handed inhis chair by the window in the living-room. 

As was her custom she spoke the moment she entered the room--but notbefore she had noted the listless attitude and wistful face of theyouth 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 oneyesterday--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-dayfolks. 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 Iseen John McGuire's poems--so fine an' bumtious! Oh, I have theperspiration 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' somany 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 apoem of that easy; but to-day I didn't even try. I KNEW I couldn't doit. An', say, Keith, it was you I was thinkin' about. "

"Heavens, Susan! A poem out of me? No wonder your muse balked! I'mafraid you'd find even--er--perspiration wouldn't make a poem out ofme. "

"Keith, do you remember?" Susan was still earnest and preoccupied. "Itold you once that it didn't make no diff'rence if God had closed thedoor of your eyes. He'd open up another room to you sometime, an' giveyou 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 toget hold of their souls again. Oh, Keith, don't you see? An' it's sucha big, wide room that God has given you, an' it's all yours. Thereain'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 shutfirst. That was what give you the key to this big, beautiful room ofhelpin' our boys what's come back to us, blinded, an' half-crazed withdespair an' discouragement. Oh, if I only could make you see it theway 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 Iwanted 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. "AndI'm glad you showed it to me. It's going to help me a whole lot if--ifI'll just keep remembering that key, I think. "

Susan threw a quick look into Keith's averted face, then promptly shereached for the folded paper in her apron pocket. 

There were times when Susan was wise beyond her station as to when thesubject should be changed. 

"An' now I'm goin' to read you the poem I did write, " she announcedbriskly--"about every-day folks--diff'rent kinds of folks. Six of 'em. It shows that there ain't any one anywhere that's really satisfiedwith their lot, when you come right down to it, whether they've goteyes 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 thelast verse. 

Keith laughed. 

"I suspect it is, Susan. And--and, by the way, I shouldn't wonder ifthis were quite the right time to show that I'm no different fromother folks. You see, I, too, --er--am going to make a change--inliving. "

"A change in living! What do you mean?"

"Oh, not now--not quite yet. But you see I'VE been doing somethinking, too. I've been thinking that if father--that is, WHEN fatherand 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'ts'pose---"

She did not finish her sentence, and after a moment's silence Keithbegan again to speak. 

"I've been talking a little to David Patch--the superintendent, youknow. 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 tolive upstairs; and they'll take me to board. I asked them. Then I'llbe right there handy all the time, you see, which will be a finearrangement 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--Ithink they would be happier without me here; and I know--I should be. "His voice was low and almost indistinct, but Susan heard--andunderstood. "The very fact that once I--I thought--that I was foolishenough to think--But, of course, as soon as I remembered my blindness--And to tie a beautiful young girl down to--" He stopped short andpulled 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, " hestumbled on hurriedly. "I--I meant to go on to say that I hoped they'dbe very happy. Dad deserves it; and--and if they'd only hurry up andget 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 itis, 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 tobe Jerry and Ned and myself, all in a bunch. And now to turn out to benothing--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 sayanother word about your bein' a disappointment. Jerry an' Ned, indeed!I wonder if you think a dozen Jerrys an' Neds could do what you'vedone! An' no matter what they done, they couldn't have done a bigger, splendider thing than you've done in triumphating over your blindnessthe way you've done, nor one that would make your father prouder ofyou! An' let me tell you another thing, Keith Burton. No matter whatyou done--no matter how many big pictures you painted, or big booksyou wrote, or how much money you made for your dad; there ain'tanything you could've done that would do him so much solid good aswhat you have done. "

"Why, Susan, are you wild? I haven't done a thing, not a thing fordad. "

"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 workhe's doin'. You know as well as I do that he used to be a thoroughlyinsufficient, uncapacious man (though I wouldn't let anybody else sayit!), putterin' over a mess of pictures that wouldn't sell for anickel. An' that he used to run from anything an' everything that wasunpropitious an' disagreeable, like he was bein' chased. Well, thenyou was took blind. An' what happened?

"You know what happened. He came right up an' toed the mark like a manan' a gentleman. An' he's toed it ever since. An' I can tell you thatthe pictures he's paintin' now with his tongue for them poor blindboys to see is bigger an' better than any pictures he could havepainted with--with his pigmy paints if he worked on 'em for a thousandyears. An' it's YOU that's done it for him, jest by needin' him. Sothere!"

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 wastumbling about her ears in one dizzy whirl of destruction. 

Daniel Burton and Dorothy Parkman married and living there, and herbeloved 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--themarriage. But they might at least be decent about it. As for keepingthat poor blind boy harrowed up all the time and prolonging the agony--well, at least she could do something about THAT, thank goodness! Andshe would, too. 

When there was anything that Susan could do--particularly in the lineof righting a wrong--she lost no time in doing it. Within two days, therefore, she made her opportunity, and grasped it. A littleperemptorily she informed Miss Dorothy Parkman that she would like tospeak to her, please, in the kitchen. Then, tall, and cold, and verystern, she faced her. 

"Of course, I understand, Miss Dorothy, I'm bustlin' in where I hain'tno 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 thequestion. 

"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 hadgrown very white. "I am tempted to make no sort of reply to such anabsurd accusation; but I'm going to say, however, that you must belaboring under some mistake. I do not come here to see Mr. KeithBurton, and I've scarcely exchanged a dozen words with him formonths. "

"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'ts'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 halflaughing, half crying, and her face was going from white to red andback to white again. "Am I to understand that I am actually beingaccused of--of running after Mr. Daniel Burton?--of--of love-makingtoward HIM?" she choked incoherently. 

"Why, y-yes; that is--er---"

"Oh, this is too much, too much! First Keith, and now--" She broke offhysterically. "To think that--Oh, Susan, how could you, how couldyou!" And this time she dropped into a chair and covered her face withher 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 brokeinto 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 'nhalf 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'twould be a match--you bein' together so much. But even then I wouldn'thave said a thing if it hadn't been for Keith. "

"Keith!"

"Yes--poor boy, he--an' it WAS hard for him, seein' you two togetherlike this, an' thinkin' you cared for each other. An' he'd got hisplans all made how when you was married he'd go an' live with DavidPatch. "

"David Patch! But--why?"

"Why, don't you see? 'T wouldn't be very easy to see you married toanother 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 keeneyes 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 hehated me. "

"That's because he cared so much. "

"Nonsense, Susan!"

"'T ain't nonsense. It's sense. As I told you, I've always suspicionedit, an' last Saturday, when I heard him talk, I knew. He as good asowned it up, anyhow. "

"But why didn't he--he tell me?" stammered the girl, growing stillmore 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 backan' do nothin', an' there'll be a pretty pair of you, eatin' yourhearts out with love for each other, an' passin' each other by withconverted faces an' highbrow chins; an' all because you're afraid ofoffendin' Mis' Grundy, who don't care no more about you than twosticks. 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 littlevoice. 

"You would have been, if you'd seen him Saturday, as I did. "

"And if---"

"If--if--if!" interrupted Susan impatiently. "An' there that poorblind boy sets an' thinks an' thinks an' thinks, an' longs for someone 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 twinroses. 

"Do what?" demanded Susan. 

"I don't know. But, I'm going to do SOMETHING. Anyhow, whatever I do Iknow I'm going to--to defy the 'properties, '" she babbled deliriously, as she hurried from the room, looking very much as if she were tryingto hide from herself. 

Four days later, Keith, in his favorite chair, sat on the southpiazza. It was an April day, but it was like June, and the windowbehind him was wide open into the living-room. He did not hear DorothyParkman's light step up the walk. He did not know that she had pausedat sight of him sitting there, and had put her hand to her throat, andthen that she had almost run, light-footed, into the house, again verymuch as if she were trying to run away from herself. But he did hearher voice two minutes later, speaking just inside the window. 

At the first sentence he tried to rise, then with a despairing gestureas if realizing that flight would be worse than to remain where hewas, he sat back in his chair. And this is what he heard DorothyParkman say:

"No, no, Mr. Burton, please--I--I can't marry you. You'll have tounderstand. No--don't speak, don't say anything, please. There'snothing you could say that--that would make a bit of difference. It'sjust 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 tobe 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 justthat--that his pride won't let him speak. As if his dear eyes didn'tmake me love him--

"But I mustn't say all this--to you. It's just that--that I wanted youto 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 KeithBurton. 

"Dorothy, oh, Dorothy--I heard!"

And then it was well, indeed, that the Japanese screen on the frontpiazza was down, for Keith stood with his arms outstretched, andDorothy, with an ineffably contented little indrawn breath, walkedstraight into them. And with that light on his face, she would havewalked into them had he been standing in the middle of the sidewalkoutside. 

[Illustration: IT WAS WELL THAT THE JAPANESE SCREEN ON THE FRONTPIAZZA WAS DOWN]

To Dorothy at that moment nobody in all the world counted for afeather's weight except the man who was holding her close, with hislips to hers. 

Later, a little later, when they sat side by side on the piazzasettee, and when coherence and logic had become attributes to theirconversation, Keith sighed, with a little catch in his voice:

"The only thing I regret about this--all this--the only thing thatmakes 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 herbreath with a little choking sob of heartache because he could not seethe love she knew was in her eyes. But the heartache only nerved herto 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 tomyself. "

"You mean--practicing what you were going to say?" questioned Keithdoubtfully. "And that--that he doesn't know yet that you are going torefuse him?"

"N-no--er--well, yes. That is, I mean, it's true. He--he doesn't knowI am going to refuse him. " There was a hint of smothered laughter inthe girl's voice. 

"Dorothy!" The arm about her waist perceptibly loosened and almostfell 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 meyet. That is, I mean, " she amended hastily, "he--he isn't going topropose 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 neverthought 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 makeme 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 onthe porch, and--and I knew you'd hear--what I said. And so, to makeyou understand--oh, Keith, it was awful, but I--I pretended that---"

"You--darling!" breathed an impassioned voice in her ear. "Oh, how Ilove you, love you--for that!"

"Oh, but, Keith, it really was awful of me, " she cried, blushing andlaughing, 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, " hebantered 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 oweit 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 shedo it?"

"She told me that you--you thought your father and I cared for eachother, and that--that you cared for me; but that you were very braveand were going to go away, and--leave us to our happiness. Then, whenshe found there was nothing to the other part of it, and that I--Icared 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 donewhat Susan wanted us to, and we never could tell why. We--we just didit. That's all. And, oh, I'm so glad you did this, little girl, soglad!"

"Yes, but---" She drew away from him a little, and her voice becameseverely accusing. "Keith Burton, you--you should have done ityourself, 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 itaway. "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 halfpleading, half whimsical. Her eyes, through her tears, were studyinghis face, turned partly away from her. "Confession is good for thesoul. "

"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 throughSusan 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 nearyou, 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'tbeen easy. But, listen, dear. I think I've loved you from away back inthe 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. Oneday, away back then, I saw you shudder once at--blindness. We weretalking 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 youcouldn't bear to look at them. And you see I feared, even then, that Iwas 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 theobject of curiosity and pity, and, I believed, aversion, wherever Iwent. And, oh, I so hated it! I didn't want to be stared at, andpointed out, and pitied. I didn't want to be different. And above allI didn't want to know that you were turning away from me in aversionand 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 thedark, as I used to see you with your bright eyes and pretty hair, andI 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--untilI should be well again. I was going to be well, of course, then, youknow. 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--atthe very first--she gave me quite a start. Her voice sounded so muchlike--Dorothy Parkman's. But very soon I forgot that, and just gavemyself up to the enjoyment of her companionship. I wasn't afraid withher--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'tforgotten Dorothy. Some day I was going back to her--seeing. 

"Well, you know what happened--the operations, the specialists, theyears of waiting, the trip to London, then home, hopelessly blind. Itwas not easy then, Dorothy, but--I tried to be a man. Most of all Ifelt 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 withyou, dear. To go on: I gave you up then definitely. I know that allthe while I'd been having you back in my mind, young as I was--thatsome 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 chanceof always having to turn away in aversion and disgust from the sightof your husband. "

"Oh, Keith, how could you!"

"I couldn't. But you see how I felt. Then, one day I heard MissStewart's voice in the hall, and, oh, how good it sounded to me! Ithink I must have caught her hand very much as the drowning man graspsat 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 ofmind myself. I didn't think I was in love with her, yet with her I washappy, and I was never afraid. 

"But I didn't have a chance long to question. Almost at once came theday 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 helplessI felt. All that I knew was that for months and months I had letDorothy Parkman read to me, play with me, and talk to me--that I hadbeen eager to take all the time she would give me; when all the whileshe had been doing it out of pity, of course, and I could see just howshe must have been shuddering and turning away her eyes all the long, long weeks she had been with me, at different times. But even morethan that, if possible, was the chagrin and dismay with which Irealized that all the while I had been cheated and deceived and made afool of, because I was blind, and could not see. I had been trickedinto 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 rageand 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 didsee you, I tried to toss it all off lightly, as of no consequencewhatever. "

"Well, you--succeeded, " commented Dorothy dryly. 

"I had to, you see. I had found out then how much I really did care. Iknew then that somehow you and Miss Stewart were hopelessly mixed upin my heart, and that I loved you, and that the world without you wasgoing to be one big desert of loneliness and longing. You see, it hadnot been so hard to give you up in imagination; but when it came tothe 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 helplesscreature who would probably finally end up on a street corner with atin cup for pennies? Besides, in your case, I had not forgotten theshudders and the averted eyes. I still was so sure---

"Then John McGuire came home blind; and after a while I found I couldhelp him. And, Dorothy, then is when I learned that--that perhaps YOUwere as happy in doing things for me as I had been in doing them forJohn McGuire. I sort of forgot the shudders and the averted eyes then. Besides, along about that time we had got back to almost our oldfriendliness--the friendliness and companionship of Miss Stewart andme. Then the money came and I knew that at least I never should haveto ask you to subsist on what the tin cup of pennies could bring! AndI had almost begun to--to actually plan, when all of a sudden youstopped 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 knewbecause I used to hear about you. I was sure then that--that you hadseen I was caring for you, and so you stayed away. Besides, it cameback to me again--my old fear of your pity and aversion, of your eyesturned away. You see, always, dear, that's been a sort of obsessionwith 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 lookback. Yes, I know it's all very foolish and very silly; but we are allfoolish 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'tspeak--who tries to cheat me into thinking I am alone. I--I can't bearit, 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 knowI knew. But I was trying all those days to put you quite out of mymind, and I busied myself with John McGuire and told myself that I wassatisfied 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 lovedyou more than ever. Just at first, the very first, I thought you hadcome 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. Letdad know that his loving you hurt me? Fail dad there, as I had failedhim everywhere else? I guess not! This was something I COULD do. Icould let him have you, and never, never let him know. So I buriedmyself in work and tried to--forget. 

"Then to-day you came. At the first sound of your voice in there, whenI realized what you were saying (to dad, I supposed), I started up andwould 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, rightaway I heard words that made me so weak with joy and amazement that myknees bent under me and I had to sit down. And then--but you know therest, dear. "

"Yes, I know the rest; and I'll tell you, some time, why I--I stoppedcoming last fall. "

"All right; but even that doesn't matter to me now; for now, in spiteof my blind eyes, the way looks all rosy ahead. Why, dear, it's likethe dawn---the dawn of a new day. And I used to so love the dawn! Youdon't know, but years ago, with dad, I'd go camping in the woods, andsometimes we'd stay all night on the mountain. I loved that, for inthe 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 meto-day, dear. It's my dawn--the dawn of a new day. And it's sowonderful--after the dark!"

"Oh, Keith, I'm so glad! And, listen, dear. It's not only dawn foryou, but for all those blind boys down there that you are helping. Youhave 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. Idon't know, of course, about them. But I do know about myself. And Iknow it's the most wonderful dawn ever was for me. And I know thatwith your little hand in mine I'll walk fearlessly straight on, withmy chin up. And now that I know dad doesn't care, and that he isn'tgoing to be unhappy about my loving you and your loving me, I haven'teven that to fear. "

"And, oh, Keith, think, think what it would have been if--if I hadn'tdefied 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 evenquite 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, greatambitions, but that he never dreamed he could be as proud of you as heis right now--what you had done for yourself, and what you were doingfor those boys down there. "

"Did dad say that?"

"Yes. "

"And to think of my having that, and you, too!" breathed the man, hisarm tightening about her. 

THE END