er of disentangling the component elements of a scent, such as came
from his garden on a warm summer day. Some of the writings that were
shown me were religious in character, in which the man spoke of a
constant sense of the nearness of God's presence, and of a strange joy
that filled his heart.

On the following day the Vicar suggested that we should go to see him;
we turned out of a lane, and found a little cottage with a thatched
roof, standing in a small orchard, bright with flowers. On a bench we
saw the man sitting, entirely unconscious of our presence. He was a
tall, strongly-built fellow with a beard, bronzed and healthy in
appearance. His eyes were wide open, and, but for a curious fixity of
gaze, I should not have suspected that he was blind. His hands were
folded on his knee, and he was smiling; once or twice I saw his lips
move as if he was talking to himself. "We won't go up to him," said
the Vicar, "as it might startle him; we will find his wife." So we
went up to the cottage door, and knocked. It was opened to us by a
small elderly woman, with a grave, simple look, and a very pleasant
smile. The little place was wonderfully clean and neat. The Vicar
introduced me, saying that I had been much interested in her husband's
writings, and had come to call on him. She smiled briskly, and said
that he would be much pleased. We walked down the path; when we were
within a few feet of him, he became aware of our presence, and turned
his head with a quiet, expectant air. His wife went up to him, took
his hand, and seemed to beat on it softly with her fingers; he smiled,
and presently raised his hat, as if to greet us, and then took up a
little writing-pad which lay beside him, and began to write. A little
conversation followed, his wife reading out what he had written, and
then interpreting our remarks to him. What struck me most was the
absence of egotism in what he wrote. He asked the Vicar one or two
questions, and desired to know who I was. I went and sate down beside
him; he wrote in his book that it was a pleasure to him to meet a
stranger. Might he take the liberty of seeing him in his own way? "He
means," said the wife, smiling, "might he put his hand on your
face--some people do not like it," she added apologetically, "and he
will quite understand if you do not." I said that I was delighted; and
the blind man thereupon laid his hand upon my sleeve, and with an
incredible deftness and ligh