k was over she used to read a newspaper to him. She
uttered no sound, but sat with the paper in her lap, whilst her little
fingers fluttered about his hand like the wings of a bird, and his slow
monotonous voice followed her, repeating words and sentences, or telling
her to go on to something else.

One day Bessie, who was often accompanied by a friend, took with her
Miss Elizabeth Wordsworth, daughter of the late Bishop of Lincoln, to
have a chat with A.

Miss Wordsworth sent her the following poem in memory of the visit:

A MINISTRY OF LOVE TO ONE BLIND AND DEAF.

Near him she stands, her fingers light
In quick succession go
Across his yielding palm, as white,
As swift, as flakes of snow.

The diamond on her hand, that gleams
And flashes when it stirs,
Toward other eyes may fling its beams,
But never gladden hers.

No word she speaks, no whisper soft
His inner mind to reach;
No glances casts, tho' looks are oft
More eloquent than speech.

The smile that gilds a friendly face
Shall never meet his eye;
Songs, footsteps, laughter, tears, give place
To dreary vacancy.

Silence and darkness, brethren twain
For ever at his side,
Still hold him in their double chain
Inexorably tied.

Yet love is stronger still, and she
Even hither wins her way,
And soothes the long captivity
Beneath that iron sway.

Such tenderness, long years ago,
The nymphs of ocean led
To stern Prometheus stretched in woe
Upon his stony bed.

Or in the shape of insect, flower,
Or bird has helped to cheer,
In later times, full many an hour
Of bondage, sad and drear.

But what can comfort, like the heart
That sorrow's self has known;
Since that has learnt the healing art
From sufferings of its own.

And casting selfish grief away
Forgets its own distress
In sorrows heavier still, that prey
On some more comfortless.

This she has learnt--the secret this
Of her calm life below;
This gives those lips that sober bliss
And smoothes that peaceful brow.

Yet more; the love of human kind,
How pure soe'er it be,
Can never fill the heart, designed
To grasp infinity.

True, when the night of grief is dark
It gladdens us to ken