"Glad," she replied, restraining her emotion. "Sit down on the bench, Davie."
"Why—I didn't notice it first—you're wearing dark glasses again! Are your eyes worse?"
"Sit down, Davie, sit down," she said nervously. "That's right," she added as he sat beside her and put one arm about her.
"Now tell me," he said imperiously. "Are you sure you're all right? You're not worrying about me?"
"No, I'm not worrying about you; I quit worrying long ago. But I must tell you—I wish I didn't have to—don't be scared—it's just about my eyes."
"Tell me! Are they worse?"
She laid her hand on his knees. "Don't get excited—but—I can't see."
"Can't see!" He repeated the words as though he could not understand them. Then he put his hands on her cheeks and peered into her face in the semi-darkness of the porch. "Not blind? Oh, mommie, not blind?"
She nodded, her lips trembling. "Yes, it's come. I'm blind."
The words, fraught with so much sorrow, sounded like claps of thunder in his ears. "Mother," he cried again, "you can't be blind!"