It was some weeks before Keith stood upright on his feet again. His
illness was a long and serious one. Late in September, Mrs. McGuire,
hanging out her clothes, accosted Susan over the back-yard fence.

"I heard down to the store last night that Keith Burton was goin' to
get well."

"Of course he's goin' to get well," retorted Susan with emphasis. "I
knew he was, all the time."

"All the same, I think it's a pity he is." Mrs. McGuire's lips came
together a bit firmly. "He's stone blind, I hear, an' my John says--"

"Well, what if he is?" demanded Susan, almost fiercely. "You wouldn't
kill the child, would you? Besides SEEIN' is only one of his
facilities. He's got all the rest left. I reckon he'll show you he can
do somethin' with them."

Mrs. McGuire shook her head mournfully.

"Poor boy, poor boy! How's he feel himself? Has he got his senses, his
real senses yet?"

"He's just beginnin' to." The harshness in Susan's voice betrayed her
difficulty in controlling it. "Up to now he hain't sensed anything,
much. Of course, part of the time he hain't known ANYTHING--jest lay
there in a stupid. Then, other times he's jest moaned of-of the dark--
always the dark.