"That's mighty thoughtful of you, Johnny," Allan had responded. "But we've
got plenty of room as it is. Just you stick around. We want you here."
"All right, Doc. If there's any little thing, you know--answering the
'phone at night or anything else that I can do--"
"Thank you, so; I'll let you know. But in the meantime go to bed."
From that day on, John had taken not only his breakfast but his supper,
too, outside, and no one had noticed his absence. Coming in late, he had
hobbled silently up to his room, stopping to listen at Deborah's door. He
had kept so completely out of the way, it was not till the baby was three
weeks old, and past its second crisis, that Deborah thought to ask for
John. When he came to her bed, she smiled up at him with the baby in her
arms.
"I thought we'd see him together," she said. John stood on his crutches
staring down. And as Deborah watched him, all at once her look grew intent.
"Johnny," she said softly, "go over there, will you, and turn up the light,
so we can see him better."
And when this was done, though she still talked smilingly of the child,
again and again she glanced up at John's face, at the strange self-absorbed
expression, stern and sad and wistful, there. When he had gone the tears
came in her eyes. And Deborah sent for her husband.
* * * * *
The next day, at the office, John came into Roger's room.
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