Before night the oculist from London also arrived. He confirmed all that the physician had said; he could pronounce nothing positive as to Leila’s recovering her sight, but he had hope; and he enforced still more strictly, if possible, that every thing should be done to strengthen her general health, and agitation and excitement of every kind carefully avoided. “Don’t let any one be with her,” he said, “who is likely to agitate her; there is an old woman in the passage in such a state of distress; she is clamorous for admittance, but it must not be yielded to.” This was spoken aside to Mr. Howard, but Leila caught the words, “old woman.” “It is Peggy Dobie,” she said, “my dear Peggy; oh, papa, let her come in for a moment, only one moment, papa, and then I shall keep myself quite still, and not be agitated again.”
Mr. Howard thought she ought to be gratified; he knew better than the oculist the command which Leila could maintain over herself: he spoke to Peggy himself—she came in, knelt down by Leila’s bed, took her hand, and with a voice which trembled with emotion, she said, “My dear, dear bairn, your poor old Peggy will pray for you, and there is a merciful God above.” Her voice sank to a whisper; she seemed unable to add another word; but Leila seemed calmed and comforted. Poor Peggy left the room, but she lingered till a late hour in the house, and was back again in the first dawn of the morning.
The sad news had spread rapidly through the village: Leila was so beloved by old and young, that the inquiries during the whole day had been numerous. The children of the village, as well as her little scholars, came in troops, and Amy had many a sorrowful scene to go through with them. Nurse sat by Leila’s side during the whole night, and Mr. Howard visited her every hour. Her sleep was very broken, and next day she was so feverish that no one but her papa and Nurse were allowed to see her—not even Selina; but by another day, the feverish symptoms entirely left her; she felt weak and easily fluttered, but was generally quite calm, and at times even cheerful. For some days Matilda, though in the house, was only allowed to come into the room at short intervals. Matilda had not sufficient control over her feelings, and the warm expression of an affection, which was now greater than ever, was too much for poor Leila. She was desired to be as much as possible in the open air, and she was carried out every day into the garden, and sat for hours in the shade, taking a little turn now and then, leaning upon her papa. The first time she went out was a great trial to her, and for some time she wept silently; then taking her papa’s hand as they sat together under a tree in the garden, she said:—
“Papa, I have made you more sorry, but it is over now; it was just at first—indeed I could not help it, for the air brought to me the sweet smell of the flowers which I can no longer see, and from the feeling on my eyelids I know the sun must be shining gloriously. O, how I used to like to gaze on the rising sun, and to watch the soft grey of the morning fading before his golden light! and it brought grand feelings to my mind, and good feelings too, papa, for it made me think of Him who is more glorious than the sun.”
“Yes, my child, but that feeling can still be yours, and even in a higher degree, for this trial may lead you to raise your mind more constantly to Him in whose presence there is everlasting light.”
“Yes, papa, I know it, and I will pray for this. Do you remember the text in Isaiah which says, ‘I will bring the blind by a way that they know not, I will lead them in paths that they have not known; I will make darkness light before them, and crooked things straight; these things will I do unto them, and not forsake them.’ And God may do this to me, papa; He may open the eyes of my mind, and make it all more light to me. And I have many pleasures yet, you know: I have you, papa; and that is more than a pleasure, it is my happiness. O you don’t know what I feel when you are near me; I am not melancholy then; indeed I am never so melancholy as I thought I should be; I know when it is light and when it is dark quite well; and once you know I saw your face for a moment; I think I should be quite happy if I got leave to see you for a moment every day, but Dr. B—— says I must not—why, papa?”
“Because, my love, nothing must be done to increase the injury on the nerves; therefore you must not try to force your eyelids up.”
“Well, papa, I will try to be patient; but I may hope not to be always blind. You know Jesus Christ opened the eyes of many that were blind: He was full of pity, and I may pray to Him to open my eyes,—that is, if He thinks it good for me.”
“Yes, my child, such prayers, leaving all to Him, cannot fail to be acceptable in His sight. He has loved you, Leila, from your birth, with more than an earthly love; and never more, I feel sure, than at this moment, when you are bowing meekly to His will. His deathless love is around, and above you, even now; He can wipe all tears from your eyes with a hand that never comforted in vain; He can give you happy dreams of green pastures and still waters, and brighter and brighter hopes of that dear home, where no darkness, no grief, no fear can enter; only the eternal shining of a light divine, and joy unspeakable! Now, sweet one, we must walk a little, I must not talk to you too much.”
“But, papa, such talk as this!”