r head. "Can you believe me to be afraid of so short a
pain? And yet I am oppressed by foolish childish fancies, from which I
cannot see my way. From that day when the strange doctor for whom the
baron sent, came down from the great house to see your father, and your
mother called us in to him from the garden--from that hour there has
been a weight upon me which will not go. You were so glad, you took no
notice; but when your father knelt down, and began to return thanks to
God for this great mercy, my heart was dumb within me, and I could not
join. I tried to find a reason for being thankful, but I could feel
none."

She said this very quietly, and her voice was steady. He struck
a few gentle chords. Between the hoarse jarring tones peculiar
to such old instruments, sounded the distant song of returning
labourers--contrasting, as did that life, in its plenitude of light and
power, with the dream-life of these two blind children.

The boy appeared to feel it; he rose hastily, and went to the
window with unerring step--for he knew that room and everything it
contained--and, tossing back his fine fair curls, he said:

"You are fanciful, Marlene; our fathers and mothers and all the village
wish us joy, and should it not be joy?--before they promised this, I
did not mind. We are blind, they say; I never knew what it was we
wanted. When visitors used to come and see my mother, and we heard them
pity us, and say; 'Ah, those poor children!' I used to get so angry.
What right have they to pity us? I thought. Still, I always knew that
we are not like other people. They often spoke of things I did not
understand, but yet which must be lovely; now that we are to know these
too, curiosity has taken hold of me, and will not let me rest night or
day."

"I was quite content before;" said Marlene, sadly. "I was happy, and
could have been happy all my life--now it will be different. Do you
never hear people complain of care and trouble? and what did we know of
care?"

"That was because we did not know the world; and I want to know it, at
whatever risk. I too have been contented to grope about with you, and
to be left in idleness--but not for ever. I will have no advantage over
those who have to work. Sometimes, when my father used to teach us
history, and tell us of all the heroes and their doings, I would ask
him if any of these were blind? But every man who had done anything to
speak of, could see. The like thoughts would keep t