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

SUSAN CRYING! Keith stood in the doorway and stared unbelievingly. He
had not supposed that Susan could cry.

"Why, Susan!" he gasped. "What IS the matter?"

He never forgot the look on Susan's face as she sprang toward him, or
the quick cry she gave.

"Oh, Keith, my boy, my boy!" Then instantly she straightened back,
caught up a knife, and began to peel an onion from a pan on the shelf
before her. "Cryin'? Nonsense!" she snapped quaveringly. "Can't a body
peel a pan of onions without being accused of cryin' about somethin'?
Shucks! What should I be cryin' for, anyway, to be sure?

Some things need a knife,
An' some things need a pill,
An' some things jest a laugh'll make a cure.
But jest you bet your life,
You may cry jest fit to kill,
An' never cure nothin'--that is sure.

That's what I always say when I see folks cryin'. An' it's so, too.
Here, Keith, want a cooky? An' take a jam tart, too. I made 'em this
mornin', 'specially for you."