Helen tiptoed softly into the kitchen and out on the back porch, closing the kitchen door behind her carefully. Then she took one jump from the porch to the walk and ran furiously out to the chicken-yard where Henry and Stephen were feeding the chickens.
At least Stephen was feeding the chickens. Henry was looking anxiously towards the house, and the moment he saw Helen come out, started back on a run to meet her. As he ran his shadowed face caught light from hers.
“It’s all right!” she told him in a loud whisper as they came together. “The doctor says that Father never can be cured, that he’ll always have to go on crutches.”
“Oh, Helen!” said Henry, catching desperately at her arm. “Are you sure? Are you sure?”
His mouth began to work nervously, and he crooked his arm over his face to hide it.
“What’s the matter of you?” asked Stephen, running up alarmed. Helen got down on her knees and put her arm around the little boy. Her voice was trembling as she said, “Stevie, dear, Father’s going to stay right with us. He’s never going to go away.”
Stephen looked at her appalled. His rosy face paled to white. “Was he going to go away from us?” he asked, horrified.
“Why, of course, he’d have to, to work, if the doctor could cure him. But the doctor says he can’t. He says Father never will....”
Stephen had been glaring into her face to make sure he understood. He now pushed her from him roughly and ran at top speed towards the house.
He bounded up on the porch, he burst open the door, the house was filled with the clamor of his passionate, questing call of “Father! Fa-a-ather!”