CHAPTER XXXI
BLINDNESS
David Eby had spent the day at Lancaster and returned to Greenwald at seven-thirty. He started with springing step out the country road in the soft June twilight. It was a twilight pervaded by blended perfumes and the sleepy chirp of birds. David drew in deep breaths of the fresh country air.
"Lancaster County," he said aloud to himself, "and it's good enough for me!"
Scarcely slackening his pace he started up the long road by the hill. He paused a moment on the summit and looked back at the town of Greenwald, then almost ran down the road to his home.
He whistled his old greeting whistle.
"Here, David, I'm on the porch," came his mother's voice.
"Mommie," he cried gaily as he took her into his arms, "I knew you'd be looking for me."
Then for the first time since his father's death he heard his mother sob. "Oh, mother," he asked, "is my going away as hard as all that? Or are you only glad to see me?"