Dawn by Eleanor Porter (best finance books of all time TXT) 📕

Without waiting for an answer to her question, she strode through thedoor leading to the dining-room and shut it crisply behind her.

The boy did not follow her. Alone, in the kitchen he drummed idly onthe window-pane, watching the first few drops of a shower that hadbeen darkening the sky for an hour past.

After a minute he turned slowly and gazed with listless eyes about thekitchen. On the table lay a folded newspaper. After a moment'shesitation he crossed the room toward it. He had the air of oneimpelled by some inner force against his will.

He picked the paper up, but did not at once look at it. In fact, helooked anywhere but at it. Then, with a sudden jerk, he faced it.Shivering a little he held it nearer, then farther away, then neareragain. Then, with an inarticulate little cry he dropped the paper andhurried from the room.

No one knew better than Keith himself that he was not reading muchthis summer. Not that he put it into words, but he had a feeling thatso long as he was not SEEING how blurred the printed words were, hewould not be sure that they were blurred. Yet he knew that always,whenever he saw a book or paper, his fingers fairly tingled to pick itup—and make sure. Most of the time, however, Keith tried not tonotice the books and papers. Systematically he tried to forget thatthere were books and papers—and he tried to forget the Great Terror.

Sometimes he persuaded himself that he was doing this. He contrived tokeep himself very busy that summer. Almost every day, when it did notrain, he was off for a long walk with his father in the woods. Hisfather liked to walk in the woods. Keith never had to urge him to dothat. And what good times they had!—except that Keith did wish thathis father would not talk quite so much about what great things he,Keith, was going to do when he should have become a man—and a greatartist.

One day he ventured to remonstrate.

"But, dad, maybe I—I shan't be a great artist at all. Maybe I shan'tbe even a little one. Maybe I shall be just a—a man."

Keith never forgot his father's answer nor his father's anguished faceas he made that answer.

"Keith, I don't ever want you to let me hear you say that again. Iwant you to KNOW that you're going to succeed. And you will succeed.God will not be so cruel as to deny me that. I have failed. Youneedn't shake your head, boy, and say 'Oh, dad!' like that. I knowperfectly well what I'm talking about. I HAVE FAILED—-though it isnot often that I'll admit it, even to myself. But when I heard you sayto-day—-

"Keith, listen to me. You've got to succeed. You've got to succeed notonly for yourself, but for Jerry and Ned, and for—me. All my hopesfor Jerry and Ned and for—myself are in you, boy. That's why, in allour walks together, and at home in the studio, I'm trying to teach yousomething that you will want to know by and by."

Keith never remonstrated with his father after that. He felt worsethan ever now when his father talked of what great things he was goingto do; but he knew that remonstrances would do no good, but ratherharm; and he did not want to hear his father talk again as he hadtalked that day, about Jerry and Ned and himself. As if it were notbad enough, under the best of conditions, to have to be great andfamous for one's two dead brothers and one's father; while if one wereblind—-

But Keith refused to think of that. He tried very hard, also, toabsorb everything that his father endeavored to teach him. He listenedand watched and said "yes, sir," and he did his best to make thechalks and charcoal that were put into his hands follow the copy setfor him.

To be sure, in this last undertaking, his efforts were not alwayssuccessful. The lines wavered and blurred and were far from clear.Still, they were not half so bad as the print in books; and if itshould not get any worse—Besides, had he not always loved to drawcats and dogs and faces ever since he could hold a pencil?

And so, with some measure of hope as to the results, he was settinghimself to be that great and famous artist that his father said hemust be.

But it was not all work for Keith these summer days. There were gamesand picnics and berry expeditions with the boys and girls, all ofwhich he hailed with delight—one did not have to read, or even studywavering lines and figures, on picnics or berrying expeditions! Andthat WAS a relief. To be sure, there was nearly always Mazie, and ifthere was Mazie, there was bound to be Dorothy. And Dorothy had said—Some way he could never see Dorothy without remembering what she didsay on that day he had come home from Uncle Joe Harrington's.

Not that he exactly blamed her, either. For was not he himself actingas if he felt the same way and did not like to look at blind persons?Else why did he so persistently keep away from Uncle Joe now? Notonce, since that first day, had he been up to see the poor old blindman. And before—why, before he used to go several times a week.

CHAPTER IV

SCHOOL

And so the summer passed, and September came. And September brought anew problem—school. And school meant books.

Two days before school began Keith sought Susan Betts in the kitchen.

"Say, Susan, that was awfully good johnny-cake we had this morning."

Susan picked up another plate to dry and turned toward her visitor.Her face was sternly grave, though there was something very like atwinkle in her eye.

"There ain't no cookies, if that's what you're wantin'," she said.

"Aw, Susan, I never said a word about cookies."

"Then what is it you want? It's plain to be seen there's something, Iween."

"My, how easy you do make rhymes, Susan. What's that 'I ween' mean?"

"Now, Keith Burton, this beatin' the bush like this don't