been darkening the sky for an hour past.

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

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

No one knew better than Keith himself that he was not reading much
this summer. Not that he put it into words, but he had a feeling that
so long as he was not SEEING how blurred the printed words were, he
would not be sure that they were blurred. Yet he knew that always,
whenever he saw a book or paper, his fingers fairly tingled to pick it
up--and make sure. Most of the time, however, Keith tried not to
notice the books and papers. Systematically he tried to forget that
there were books and papers--and he tried to forget the Great Terror.

Sometimes he persuaded himself that he was doing this. He contrived to
keep himself very busy that summer. Almost every day, when it did not
rain, he was off for a long walk with his father in the woods. His
father liked to walk in the woods. Keith never had to urge him to do
that. And what good times they had!--except that Keith did wish that
his father would not talk quite so much about what great things he,
Keith, was going to do when he should have become a man--and a great
artist.