consciously released my hold upon the arm I held, and she drew the
sheet up and covered her face as I was wont to see it, and held it
there. With the other, she gently stroked the baby curls.

I watched this transformation as if under a spell.

Suddenly she turned her head toward Hopkins, her eyes full of tenderness
and pity and love, reached out her hand and said:

"Oh, Steadman, my voice has come back, God has taken off the curse."

But poor Hopkins was on his knees beside the bed, his face buried in his
arms, his strong shoulders heaving and pitiful sobs breaking from his
very heart.

A couple of months afterward I resigned to go back to God's country, the
home of the east wind, and where I could know my own children and speak
to my own wife without an introduction, and the Hopkins invited me to a
farewell dinner.

"My Lady of the Eyes" presided, looking handsomer and stronger than
usual, but she didn't eat with us. But with eyes and voice she
entertained us so royally and pleasantly that Hopkins and I did eating
enough for all.

After supper, Hop. and I lighted our cigars and "railroaded" for awhile,
then "Her Eyes" went to the piano and sang a dozen songs as only a
trained singer can. Her voice was wonderfully sweet and low. They were
old songs, but they seemed the better for that, and while she sang
Hopkins's cigar went out and he just gazed at her with pride and joy in
every lineament of his scarred and furrowed face.

Little Maddie was allowed to sit up in honor of "Untle Tummy," but after
awhile the little head bobbed quietly and the little chin fell between
the verses of her mother's song, and "My Lady of the Eyes" took her by
the hand and brought her over to us.

"Tell papa good-night and Uncle Chum my good-bye, dear, and we'll go to
bed."

Hopkins kissed the baby, and I got my hug, and another to take to my
"ittle dirl," and Mrs. Hopkins held out both her hands to me.

"Good-bye, dear Chum," said she, "my love to you and yours, now and
always."

Hopkins put his arm around his wife, kissed her forehead and said:

"Sweetheart, I'm going to tell Chum a story."

"And don't forget the hero," said she, and turning to me, "Don't believe
all he says, and don't blame those that he blames, and remember that
what is, is best, and seeming calamities are often blessings in
disguise."

Hopkins and I looked into each other's faces and smoked in silence for
ten minutes, then he turned to his secretary and