"He actually keeps me seeing, Ellen. If he didn't watch, I'd be blind—think of it! I'd do anything in the world for him—anything!" She touched her eyes with her handkerchief and winced. "I sewed my way through college—that's the trouble. You'll have to read your catalogues to me; I can't see."
Both women heard suddenly a light, clear laugh. Hilda was coming in, accompanied by a gay companion. In the heart of Miss MacVane burned a bitter resentment; she thought of the millions of stitches she had taken with dim and aching eyes, and of the price of one of Hilda's dresses which would have saved her sight.
A faint odor of cigarette smoke drifted along the hall and through the door. Hilda was doubtless sitting in her favorite corner of the library sofa, smoking. Miss MacVane's lips curved downward. Sounds more distressing than the thin laugh had penetrated through doors and traveled along passageways to her ears, but she said nothing even to Miss Knowlton, though she was aware that the ears of Miss Knowlton were as keen as her own. Both women knew, as Fetzer sometimes suspected, all that was to be known, at least all that Fetzer knew.
For a few days Miss MacVane's eyes improved slowly. Each afternoon Ellen escorted her to her car, and one day as she walked back she saw standing and gazing at the river a tall figure. She noted with amusement its immobility in contrast with the ludicrous excitement of a flock of blackbirds that inflated their bodies and hopped about near by; then, recognizing the tall figure, she ran across the street.
"Why, Amos!"
Amos looked down at her. Grandfather had been ill, and this was his first opportunity to execute the commission with which he had been charged. He had meant to ring the bell, and to enter the great and beautiful house, but his courage had failed and he stood wondering what he should do. He was startled by the change in Ellen.
"Were you looking for me?"
"Yes," he answered, trembling.
"Would you like to walk?"
"Yes."