"Well," spoke up Aunt Maria, "I'm glad it's over and so are many people. Of course that Feast of Roses don't do no harm, but I think it's so dumb to have all this fuss just to give somebody a rose. If that man wanted to give the church some land why didn't he give it and done with it? It's no use to have this pokin' around every year to find the best red rose to give to some man or lady that's related to him. The rose withers right away, anyhow. And this Feast of Roses makes some people a lot of bother. I heard one woman say in the store that she has to get ready for a lot of company still for every person she knows, most, comes to visit her that Sunday and she's got to cook and wash dishes all day. I guess she's glad it's over for another year." CHAPTER XXXI BLINDNESS DAVID EBY had spent the day at Lancaster and returned to Greenwald at seven-thirty. He started with springing step out the country road in the soft June twilight. It was a twilight pervaded by blended perfumes and the sleepy chirp of birds. David drew in deep breaths of the fresh country air. "Lancaster County," he said aloud to himself, "and it's good enough for me!" Scarcely slackening his pace he started up the long road by the hill. He paused a moment on the summit and looked back at the town of Greenwald, then almost ran down the road to his home. He whistled his old greeting whistle. "Here, David, I'm on the porch," came his mother's voice. "Mommie," he cried gaily as he took her into his arms, "I knew you'd be looking for me." Then for the first time since his father's death he heard his mother sob. "Oh, mother," he asked, "is my going away as hard as all that? Or are you only glad to see me?" "Glad," she replied, restraining her emotion. "Sit down on the bench, Davie." "Why--I didn't notice it first--you're wearing dark glasses again! Are your eyes worse?" "Sit down, Davie, sit down," she said nervously. "That's right," she added as he sat beside her and put one arm about her. "Now tell me," he said imperiously. "Are you sure you're all right? You're not worrying about me?" "No, I'm not worrying about you; I quit worrying long ago. But I must tell you--I wish I didn't have to--don't be scared--it's just about my eyes." "Tell me! Are they worse?" She laid her hand on his knees. "Don't get excited--but--I can't see." "Can't see!" He repeated the words as though he could not understand them. Then he put his hands on her cheeks and peered into her face in the semi-darkness of the porch. "Not blind? Oh, mommie, not blind?" She nodded, her lips trembling. "Yes, it's come. I'm blind." The words, fraught with so much sorrow, sounded like claps of thunder in his ears. "Mother," he cried again, "you can't be blind!" "But I am. I knew it was coming. The light was getting dimmer every day. I could hardly see your face this morning when you went."