The mother stood in the middle of the floor wringing her hands. Granny sat on the sofa, stolid-faced as usual, and rolled one of her endless bandages. On the chair by the window sat the father, his shoulder against the wall, his left elbow on the table, and his head resting in his left hand.
Keith could hardly believe what he saw.
His father's face was contorted with pain or grief. Big tears rolled down his cheeks and dropped on the table before him. Every little while he was shaken by a sob that almost choked him.
"Is he sick," the boy gasped.
"Something dreadful has happened," the mother stammered, unable to take her eyes off her husband.
"You had better go into the parlour, Keith," whispered Granny as she started on a new roll.
Keith turned his glance once more to the father. He had never seen a man cry before, and until that moment such a lack of control on the part of his father had seemed quite unimaginable. The strangeness of it frightened him.
"I fear it will kill him," he heard his mother mutter.
"I wish it would," the father broke out, raising his head for a moment. "But it won't, Anna.... I'll be over it in a minute."
His words were forced out between sobs. Keith saw that he was struggling terribly to get himself in hand.