Dawn

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