clearly--Keith was not seeing anything clearly these days. "Nonsense,
Keith, of course, the sun is shinin'!" snapped Susan. "Now don't get
silly notions in your head!" Then she turned and hurried from the
room.

And Keith knew. And he knew that Susan knew.

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

It was a sorry journey. Keith did not need to go to Boston. Keith knew
now. There was no one who could tell him anything. Dad might laugh and
joke and call attention to everything amusing that he wanted to--it
would make no difference. Besides, as if he could not hear the shake
in dad's voice under all the fun, and as if he could not feel the
tremble 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 there
was 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 the
homeward journey. But that, too, made no difference. Keith already
knew.

He knew so well that he did not question him at all. But if he had not
known, he would have known from Susan the next day. For he found Susan
crying three times the next forenoon, and each time she snapped out so