Mary Roberts Rinehart

“ First of all, the white quilt was covered with brown, singed places and scraps of red paper, and all that was left of the rose-pink curtains lay smoking on the hearth. In a big chair sat a young man, with Dicky, in a blanket, on his lap; and, on her knees beside the two, with her arms as nearly as possible around them both, was Helen! Helen!
In that moment, Grandfather Bixby forgot the ice cream, the toast, the broken plate, and the spilled medicine. The other things, being a wise man, he ignored. ”

“ With a queer sound—an oath that sounded like a sob—the watcher ran across the street and into the house he had vowed never to enter again.
A young woman with a wistful mouth, something like Dicky's, turned the corner and came up the street. A fleck of yellow fire was dying in the gutter, but she did not notice it; and up above the red circle had faded away. Only a futile spark sped starward, to die with myriads of its brothers in the summer sky.
Grandfather Bixby came quickly down the street. It had taken some time, but he hoped Helen was not home yet. ”

“ The first spoonful, guided by his shaking old hand, missed the boy's open mouth and slid into the hollow of his neck, to be mopped up by Grandfather Bixby's pipe-scented handkerchief. The next half dozen reached their proper destination in short order. Then Dicky turned away his head.
“I can't chew it,” he explained, in a thin, but polite, voice. “When I shut my teeth, it isn't there. If father was here, he would make that old doctor give me something to eat. Everybody does what father says—but mother. She's allowed to do what she likes.” ”