"Don't I--DON'T I?" Susan's voice shook with emotion. "Don't you
s'pose that I know what it would be with the sun put out, an' the moon
an' the stars, an' never a thing to look at but black darkness all the
rest of your life? Never to be able to see the blue sky, or your
father's face, or--But talkin' about it don't help any. Look a-here,
if somethin' awful was goin' to happen to you, would YOU want folks to
be talkin' to you all the time about it? No, I guess you wouldn't. An'
so we don't talk here. We're just--waitin'. It may come in a year, it
may come sooner, or later. It may not come at all. An' while we ARE
waitin' there ain't nothin' we can do except to do ev'rything the
doctor tells us, an' hope--'t won't ever come."

Even Mrs. McGuire could have had no further doubt about Susan's
"caring." No one who heard Susan's voice then could have doubted it.
Mrs. McGuire, for a moment, made no answer; then, with an inarticulate
something that might have passed for almost any sort of comment, she
rose to her feet and left the house.

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

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

It was not so with others. With others (except with his father) he
never knew when a dread question or a hated comment was to be made.
And so he came to avoid those others more and more.