minute--not a minute. She's always cryin' an' wringin' her hands, an'
sighin', 'Oh, Keithie, Keithie, my poor boy, my poor blind boy!' till
it's enough to make a saint say, 'Gosh!'"

"Well, that's only showin' sympathy, Susan," defended Mrs. McGuire.
"I'm sure she ought not to be blamed for that."

"He don't want sympathy--or, if he does, he hadn't ought to have it."

"Why, Susan Betts, I'm ashamed of you--grudgin' that poor blind boy
the comfort of a little sympathy! My John said yesterday--"

"'T ain't sympathy he needs. Sympathy's a nice, soft little paw that
pats him to sleep. What he needs is a good sharp scratch that will
make him get up an' do somethin'."

"Susan, how can you talk like that?"

"'Cause somebody's got to." Susan's voice was shaking now. Her hands
were clenched so tightly on the fence pickets that the knuckles showed
white with the strain. "Mis' McGuire, there's a chance, maybe, that
that boy can see. There's somethin' they can do to his eyes, if he
gets strong enough to have it done."

"Really? To see again?"

"Maybe. There's a chance. They ain't sure. But they can't even TRY
till he gets well an' strong. An' how's he goin' to get well an'
strong lyin' on that bed, face to the wall? That's what I want to
know!"