_Father_. You see you love me a little, at all events. Now, do you think
I love you?

_Boy_. I don't see how you can. I am such a bad boy and try your
patience so. And I am not half as thankful to you for your goodness as
I ought to be. Sometimes, for a minute, I think to myself, He _is_ my
father and he really loves me; then I do something wrong, and I think
nobody would want such a boy, nobody can love such a boy.

_Father_. My son, I tell you that I do love you, but you can not believe
it because you do not know me. And you do not know me because you have
not seen me, because you are blind. I must have you cured of this
blindness.

So the blind boy had the scales removed from his eyes and began to see.
He became so interested in using his eyesight that, for a time, he
partially lost his old habit of despondency. But one day, when it began
to creep back, he saw his father's face light up with love as one after
another of his children came to him for a blessing, and said to himself:
_They_ are his own children, and it is not strange that he loves them,
and does so much to make them happy. But I am nothing but a beggar-boy;
he can't love me. I would give anything if he could. Then the father
asked why his face was sad, and the boy told him.

_Father_. Come into this picture gallery and tell me what you see.

_Boy_. I see a portrait of a poor, ragged, dirty boy. And here is
another. And another. Why, the gallery is full of them!

_Father_. Do you see anything amiable and lovable in any of them?

_Boy_. Oh, no.

_Father_. Do you think I love your brothers?

_Boy_. I know you do!

_Father_. Well, here they are, just as I took the poor fellows out of
the streets.

_Boy_. Out of the streets as you did me? They are all your adopted sons?

_Father_. Every one of them.

_Boy_. I don't understand it. What made you do it?

_Father_. I loved them so that I could not help it.

_Boy_. I never heard of such a thing! You loved those miserable beggar-
boys? Then you must be made of Love!

_Father_. I am. And that is the reason I am so grieved when some such
boys refuse to let me become their father.

_Boy_. Refuse? Oh, how can they? Refuse to become your own dear sons?
Refuse to have such a dear, kind, patient father? Refuse _love?_

_Father_. My poor blind boy, don't you now begin to see that I do not
wait for these adopted sons of mine to wash and clothe themselves, to
become good, and obedient, and affectionate