But the reports of the specialist were not encouraging. The chorea was a little better, but something seemed wrong about the boy's sight. A well-known oculist was called, and he ordered word at once sent to Mr. Allen that the trouble had all centred in the optic nerve, which was rapidly being destroyed, and that his only son must be blind forever, with no hope of any cure.
It was a terrible blow to the father, whose hopes and plans for the future were all destroyed. His feeling for his son had been pride, rather than love, and this pride was sorely wounded. A sudden press of business had kept him for some days from going to his boy, and by the time he reached him, the disease had made such rapid advances that Fred could no longer see his father, except as a dark shadow against the sun-lighted window. In other respects he was much better, and so anxious to be at home that the next afternoon the journey of a few hours was taken, and in the early November twilight he was helped up the familiar steps into the hall, where his mother met him with convulsive kisses and sobs, called him her poor, dear little Freddie, and then—went away to dress for a dinner-party, leaving the boy to the tender mercies of the servants, who were thoroughly rejoiced to have him at home once more.
This afternoon, directly after lunch, she had helped Fred to the sofa where we found him, put a plate of Malaga grapes and a dish of candy on a table beside him, and, telling him to ring for Mary in case he needed anything, she had gone away "to take forty winks," she said. But the forty winks lasted a long time, and for more than an hour Fred had lain there, listening to the dashes of rain against the window, and counting the street cars that jingled on their way past the house.
Suddenly the door-bell rang, and, at the sound, a dark red flush mounted to the boy's cheek, and a frown gathered on his face.
"Somebody coming to look at me!" he muttered; and then lay very still, listening to Mary's steps as she answered the summons.
But when he heard a familiar voice ask,—
"Well, Mary, is Master Fred in?" his face grew suddenly glad, and, sitting up on the sofa, he turned his head eagerly towards the door.
Mary's reply was inaudible to him, as she said,—
"Oh, Miss Carter, I'm so glad you've come. Master Fred's all alone out in the back parlor, and he's sad enough, poor boy!"
Then he heard Bess speak again: "Please take my cloak, Mary, it is so wet; and ask him if I may go right in there."