DAVID'S RETURN
It was October of 1918 when David Eby alighted from the train at Greenwald and started out the country road to his home. He could not resist the temptation to run into the yard of the gray farmhouse and into the kitchen where Aunt Maria and Phœbe were working.
"David!"
"Why, David!"
The cries came gladly from the two women as he bounded over the sill and extended his hand, first to the older woman, then to Phœbe.
"I just had to stop in here for a minute! Then I must run up the hill to mother. This place looks too good to pass by. How are you? You're both looking fine."
"Ach, we're well," Aunt Maria had to answer, Phœbe remaining speechless. "But why, David! You got two legs and no crutches! I thought you lost a leg."
"I did," he said, smiling, "but Uncle Sam gave me another one."
"Why, abody'd hardly know it. Ain't, Phœbe, he just limps a little? Now I bet your mom'll be glad to see you—to have you back again, I mean."
"Yes. I can't wait to get up the hill. I must go now. I'll be down later, Phœbe," he added.
"All right," she said quietly.
"Ach, Phœbe," Aunt Maria exclaimed after he left, "did you hear me? I almost give it away that his mom can see. Abody can be awful dumb still! But won't he be glad when he knows that she ain't blind! She can see him again. Ach, Phœbe, it's lots of nice people in the world, for all. It makes abody feel good to know them two are havin' a happy time."
"I'm so glad for both I could sing."
"Go on," said the woman; "I'm glad too, and I believe I could help you to holler."
As David climbed the hill by the woodland he thought musingly, "Strikes me Phœbe didn't seem extra glad to see me. Perhaps she was just surprised, perhaps my being crippled changed her. Oh, Phœbe, I want you more than ever! I wonder—is it some nerve to ask you to marry a cripple?"
However, all disquieting thoughts were forgotten as he reached the summit of the hill and saw his boyhood home.
He whistled his old greeting whistle. At the sound of it Mother Bab ran to the door.
"It's David come home!" she cried, her renewed eyes turned to the road, her hands outstretched.
"I'm back, mommie!" he called before his running feet could take him to her. But as he held her again to his heart there were no words adequate for the greeting. Their joy was great enough to be inarticulate for a while.
"But, Davie," the mother said after a long silence, "you come running! You have no crutches!"
"Why, mommie!" There was questioning wonder in his voice. "How do you know? You couldn't see! You are blind!"
"Oh, Davie, not any more! I can see!"
"You can see?" He put a hand at each side of the white-capped head and looked into her eyes. They were not the dull, half-staring eyes of blindness but eyes lighted by loving recognition.
Again words failed him as he swept her into his arms. But he could not long be silent. "Tell me," he cried. "I must know! What miracle—who—how—who did it? When?"
"Oh, Davie, you're not changed a bit! Same old question box! But I'll tell you all about it."
Throughout the story Mother Bab told ran the name of Phœbe. "Phœbe planned it all, Phœbe made the arrangements with the doctor, Phœbe took me down to Philadelphia, Phœbe was there when I found I could see"—it was Phœbe, Phœbe, till the man felt his heart singing the name.
"Isn't she going on with her music lessons?" he asked. "I was afraid she'd be in the city when I got back."
"She's given them up. It ain't like her to begin a thing and get tired of it so soon. All at once after we came back from Philadelphia she said she had enough of music, she was tired of it, and was going to stay at home and be useful. I'm glad she's not going off again, for it gets lonesome without her. You stopped to see her on the way up?"
"Yes, just a minute. I'm going down again later. She hardly said two words to me."
"You took her by surprise, I guess. Give her a chance and she'll ask you a hundred questions."
But when he paid the promised visit to Phœbe he was again disappointed by her lack of the old comradely friendliness. She shared his joy at Mother Bab's restored sight but when he began to thank her for her part in it she disclaimed all credit and asked questions to lead him from the subject of the operation. The girl seemed interested in all he said yet there was a restraint in her manner. For the first time in his life David was baffled by her attitude. As he climbed the hill again he thought, "Now, what's the matter with Phœbe? Was she or wasn't she glad to see me? I couldn't tell her I love her when she acts like that! And I'm a cripple, and she's beautiful—— Oh, my mind's in a muddle! But one thing's clear—I want Phœbe Metz for my wife."
