Mrs. Larkum's recovery was slow, and it required all the nourishing food we could provide to start the springs of life working healthfully. Her mind had dwelt so long upon her bereavement, and dark outlook into the future that a naturally robust, and well-fed person might have succumbed, but when to a delicate organization had been added the most meagre fare possible to support human existence, it was no wonder nature rebelled. It was a new experience to me, and a very agreeable one, to watch the pinched faces of the children grow round and rosy, and to hear their merry laughter.

The mother waited with feverish anxiety for tidings from her father, but for several weeks no word came; at last she began to fear he might have died under the strain of the operation. Mrs. Blake began to get anxious too, while there flitted before her fancy gruesome thoughts as to what might have been done to the poor body left to the care of those heartless doctors.

"I can't see why they take such delight in mangling dead people to see how they are put together. With all their trying they'll never be able to make a body themselves."

"It is in that way they have learned how to cure diseases and relieve pain," I assured her. "We ought to be grateful to them for taking so much trouble to relieve us of our miseries."

"I dare say we'd ought, I never thought of it that way before; in fact I've been rather sot ag'in doctors. Perhaps if they hadn't cut into dead folks' eyes, they couldn't have done for the likes of Mr. Bowen."

"Assuredly not; and sometimes the very greatest doctors bequeathe their own bodies to the dissecting room; especially if they die of some mysterious disease."

"That is good of them. I've always reckoned doctors a pretty tight lot, who worked for their money jest the same's the Mill hands."

"No doubt many of them do; but some of them are almost angelic in their sympathy for the suffering, and their longing to lessen it."

"I believe you can see more goodness in folks than any one I know. Now when I get cross with folks when they don't do as I think they ought, what you say comes to my mind; and before I know I get to making excuses, too. It's done me a sight of good being with you."

"And you have done me good,—taken me out of self, and taught me to think of others. I do not know how I should have been filling up my vacant hours but for you."

"I wish somebody would say that much to me," Mrs. Larkum said, sorrowfully. "I don't think I am any use to any one."

"With these lovely children to care for, what more can you ask than to work for them?"

"Yes, I forget charity begins at home."

"If you hadn't fell in with me that day in the cars, and got helping us here on the Mill Road you'd a found some other good work to do. Most young ladies like you would a turned up their noses at a plain old creature like me, skeered most out of their wits, talking so bold like as I did; but you answered me so kind like, I never thought you were anything but common folks like myself."

"I am very thankful to God you did meet her that day. Most like I would have been dead by this time, and father and the children on the parish," Mrs. Larkum said, with a shudder.

"Yes, I am right glad, myself," Mrs. Blake said, very complacently.

"She might have been amusing herself visiting with the aristocracy," Mrs. Larkum continued, "and dressing up every fine day, instead of coming among us, bringing better than sunshine with her. Dr. MacKenzie told me folks wondered at her coming among us so much; but he said he wished more of her class was like her."

"Now I must leave you;" I said, rising suddenly. "When you begin to praise me, I shall always go away."

"Don't you like us to tell you how much you have helped us?" Mrs. Larkum asked wistfully. "It does me so much good to talk about you."

"I believe helping you gives me more pleasure than anything I do; so why thank me for what I enjoy?"

"You won't mind your own kind talking about you coming to us, and doing so much for the poor, will you?"

"Certainly not. While I am not dependent on my neighbors for my peace of mind, I will come to see you two as often as I can do anything for you."

"I am glad to hear that; I don't get over one of your visits for days. They brace me up to take hold of life, and do the best I can for father and the children."

"I guess if folks does talk about you, they talked about one that was better'n any of us. I was reading the other day about the respectable ones in their days complaining how Christ eat with publicans and sinners," Mrs. Blake said, giving me one of her strong encouraging glances.

"Thank you, Mrs. Blake; after that I can brave any criticism."

A few days later I walked in the early afternoon to the Mill Road. Cook had prepared some special dainties for Mrs. Larkum; so with a small lunch basket on my arm I started on my errand of mercy.

I had been standing at my easel a good part of the forenoon, and the satisfaction that comes from faithful work done, together with the assurance from Mrs. Larkum that my visits carried with them something better than sunshine, I trod swiftly over the frozen streets, quite content with life and its developments. I met Dr. MacKenzie on the way. He stopped to shake hands, and with an almost boyish eagerness, said: "Have you heard the news?"

"Not anything special. I hope you have some good news for me."

"Well, our friend Mr. Bowen has been heard from. The doctor has performed his miracle."

"Can he see as well as ever?" I cried joyously.

"I believe so."

I could not keep back the troublesome tears. "I am so glad you told me," I murmured, and then nodded my adieus rather abruptly, for I was ashamed of my emotion. It seemed perfectly fitting to me, as I walked briskly along, that Dr. MacKenzie should be the first to tell me the news; for, but for him, we should never have thought of making the experiment. That very evening I met him at a party at Mrs. Silas Markham's, when he gave me the full particulars I was too tender hearted to hear in the morning. In answer to his inquiries, the occulist had written to him some special circumstances of the case. He described Mr. Bowen's extreme patience. "Such an instance of perfect trust in God is refreshing to meet with," he wrote; "and but for this his case would probably have proved hopeless, since it was one of the worst cases we have treated successfully."

"His religion has helped him wonderfully all through his terrible affliction. I wonder will he be just as devout as ever?" I said.

"I think so. He is not made of the stuff that forgets favors received from God or man."

"I think he will have stronger reasons than mere gratitude to keep him close to the Lord," I said, thinking of the joy he had in communion with the Divine, even amid his darkness and poverty.

That same day, after leaving the doctor, I proceeded first to Mrs. Blake's to tell her the news. She threw a shawl over her head and accompanied me directly to Mrs. Larkum's. We found her sitting in a comfortable, though rather ancient easy-chair, which I had exhumed, along with a good many other useful articles, from the garret at Oaklands. The two older children we interrupted taking a lesson at their mother's knee. The primer was gladly laid aside, while the children came coyly to my side, quite certain there was a delectable bite for them somewhere in my pockets. I dismissed that care from my mind by dividing the sweets, and then gave Mrs. Larkum her lunch. She sat enjoying the dainty food, sharing now and then a taste with the little ones, who had a keen appreciation for Oaklands' cookery. I sat watching the group, glancing now and then at Mrs. Blake's eloquent face with a good deal of satisfaction. I was anxious to break the news carefully and scarce knew how to begin, when Mrs. Larkum looked up at me eagerly and said:

"Have you any news from father?"

"What makes you think she has news?" Mrs. Blake asked.

"I dreamed last night you brought me a letter, and I was afraid to open it, and woke up all trembling and frightened. When I saw you coming to-day, my heart stood still for a second or two."

"Your dream is partly true, only the news is good. Dr. MacKenzie told me they have every hope that your father will see as well as ever."

I was not prepared for the effect, my words produced. A pallor overspread her face; before Mrs. Blake could reach her she had fainted. That good woman was always ready for any emergency. She very calmly laid her down on the floor and proceeded to bring her back to consciousness. The children raised a dismal wail; but this she instantly quieted by marching them off to the bedroom.

While she applied cold water vigorously, and rubbed the nerveless hands, I asked in much alarm, seeing how long and deathlike was her swoon: "Is she really dead?"

"Bless you, no. She's one of them high-strung women that takes everything hard. She fainted over and over when her husband was fetched home dead. I did think then she'd drop off; but joy don't kill like trouble."

Presently the poor creature struggled back to consciousness.

"I am afraid I have frightened you," she said, with a feeble attempt at apology.

"Pray do not think of us. I may have been to blame in breaking the news so suddenly."

"No, indeed; the fault was not in you; but I have had so many shocks the least thing upsets me. Dr. MacKenzie told me that my heart is not in a healthy state."

"I should say that was the matter with your whole body. It's a pretty rickety concern, like my old rocking-chair. Every day I'm looking for it to go to pieces under me," Mrs. Blake remarked.

"I am not nearly so bad as that; I do not expect to fall to pieces for a good many years, now that father has got his sight. He will be able to keep us comfortable, like we used to be years ago."

Mrs. Blake having got her patient back into the chair, administered wine and water to prevent a recurrence of the malady.

A week or two after this Esmerelda informed me one morning that there were great rejoicings in the Mill Road.

"I think they would like to see you there. I heard Mr. Bowen and some of them talking about you last night, after meeting."

"Mr. Bowen—was he there?"

"Oh, yes; and he sees as well as anybody."

"I will go to-day," I said, with difficulty restraining my delight.

"Some of the people who attend Beech Street Church think you are a little above everybody in Cavendish."

Esmerelda spoke with great cordiality. Now that I had been to New York, and the dressmakers there had transformed me, outwardly, into a fashionable woman, I noticed that her respect had considerably increased; and, furthermore, that some of her own costumes had been made in almost exact imitation of mine. No higher compliment than this could Esmerelda have paid me; neither could I help acknowledging that she looked very graceful and lady-like in her Sunday garment, and often I fell to speculating how she would have appeared if half her life had been spent at a first-class boarding-school. A painful sensation, probably akin to jealousy, suggested that probably she would have satisfied my guardian's fastidious tastes better than I could ever do.

But I could never treat her in the same cordial way that I treated Mrs. Blake and the Larkums, and several others of her class. These instinctively made me feel that, no matter how friendly I might be, there was no danger of their trying to assert an equality, which I suppose has existed among the members of the human family since shortly after the expulsion from Eden. With Esmerelda the case was different.

That day I betook myself to the Mill Road with a good deal of expectancy. I was anxious to see the look of recognition in those once sightless, disfigured eyes, and to hear how the long-concealed delights of a visible world once more appeared. As I was walking rapidly along the street, I saw, approaching me on the Mill Road, one whom I had never noticed there before. He walked with a quick, energetic step, as if existence was a rapture and yet I saw, beneath the soft felt hat, gray hairs that betokened him a man past the prime of life. Strange to say, I did not recognize the pedestrian and was surprised to see him pause, and hold out his hand uncertainly, as if he were hardly sure of my identity.

"I think this is Miss Selwyn." Swiftly the assurance came to me that this was Mr. Bowen.

"Is it possible you should first recognize me? I did not for an instant think it was you."

"I had the conviction all along that I should know you, no matter where our first meeting might take place."

"Persons are generally disappointed in the looks of their friends after sight has been restored. You must be an exception to the general rule, or else your perceptions are keener than the average sufferers from loss of sight." I looked closely into the eyes of my companion, and saw that they were unusually fine and expressive. He turned with me, saying, with a beautiful deference:

"May I walk back with you?"

"I shall be disappointed if you do not give me a little of your time. I only heard to-day that you were at home, and have come on purpose to see you. My curiosity has been extreme to know how the world looks after your long night."

"Nearly everything is changed, but mostly man and his works. When the bandages were finally removed, and all the other necessary restrictions, I asked to have my first glimpse of the outer world into the starry night. I do not think our language has a well deep enough to express what I felt in that first glimpse. But the human faces are sadly changed. Poverty and care, I find, are not beautifiers. My own daughter looks a stranger; only when I hear her speak. My own face surprised me most. It is changed past recognition."

He spoke a little sadly. I could think of no comforting words. After we had walked on some time in silence, he said:

"I do not think the revelations after death will be any stranger than those of the past few weeks. My blindness and restoration to sight have, in a measure, anticipated the full return of all the faculties that death, for a brief season, takes from us."

"Do you think any experience we have in this world touches on those mysteries of the first hours of immortal life? I cannot imagine any sensation that will be common to the two existences."

"There is certainly one—probably very, very many. I cannot believe there will be much change in the relationship that exists between the consecrated soul and its centre of attraction. Deepened, intensified, it no doubt will be; but not radically changed."

My thoughts instantly turned to the words the oculist had written. No wonder a man living so far within the confines of the unseen should be able to exercise almost superhuman patience under the most trying exigencies of life. When we reached the broken gate leading into the house, he paused and turned to me. He was silent for a few seconds, and then said, apparently with an effort: "I want to thank you for what you have done for me. Last night, on my way home from the house of prayer, I was hunting up the constellations that once I loved to trace and call by name, and, in some way, you were brought to mind with all that you have generously done for me; and then, and there, I tried to frame some words of gratitude by which to express what I felt. In Heaven I may be able; for only there we shall have language for our utmost stretch of thought."

"Perhaps before we meet there, as I pray God we may do, I may have more reason for gratitude than you. Have you not told me that your daily prayer is for my salvation?"

I said good-bye hurriedly without waiting for a reply, and turned my face homeward. Gradually there was coming into my heart the hope that ere long I might come into the same wealthy place where he walked with such serenity even amid life's sore trials.