expect of Daniel Burton, I s'pose, moonin' all day over those silly
pictures of his. As my John says--"

"They're not silly pictures," cut in Susan, flaring into instant
wrath. "He HAS to paint pictures in order to get money to live, don't
he? Well, then, let him paint. He's an artist--an extinguished artist
--not just a common storekeeper." (Mr. McGuire, it might be mentioned
in passing, kept a grocery store.) "An' if you're artistical, you're
different from other folks. You have to be."

"Nonsense, Susan! That's all bosh, an' you know it. What if he does
paint pictures? That hadn't ought to hinder him from takin' proper
care of his own son, had it?"

"Yes, if he's blind." Susan spoke with firmness and decision. "You
don't seem to understand at all, Mis' McGuire. Mr. Burton is an
artist. Artists like flowers an' sunsets an' clouds an' brooks. They
don't like disagreeable things. They don't want to see 'em or think
about 'em. I know. It's that way with Mr. Burton. Before, when Keith
was all right, he couldn't bear him out of his sight, an' he was goin'
to have him do such big, fine, splendid things when he grew up. Now,
since he's blind, he can't bear him IN his sight. He feels that bad.
He just won't be with him if he can help it. But he ain't forgettin'
him. He's thinkin' of him all the time. _I_ KNOW. An' it's tellin' on
him. He's lookin' thin an' bad an' sick. You see, he's so
disappointed, when he'd counted on such big things for that boy!"

"Humph! Well, I'll risk HIM. It's Keith I'm worry in' about. Who is
going to take care of him?"