“Yes, your precious one; how I like you to call me that! Come, let me sing to you; now don’t say, ‘Another day, Leila, not now,’—for it is not to be another day, I am quite able for it now—so let your precious one have her guitar again.”
She rose to search for it in its accustomed corner: Mr. Howard had had it removed, but he placed it in her hands again, and she seated herself by his side, and began to sing one of his most favourite airs. At first her voice was weak and tremulous; but gradually it acquired more firmness, though there was so much of unusual melancholy in its rich and liquid tones, that filled Mr. Howard’s eyes with tears. She evidently found it a great effort to continue, and her next choice was a more lively air.
“Now, papa,” she said, as the second song was ended, “I hope I have cheered you again; I should not have tried to sing that melancholy song.”
Alas! dear child, she could not see that her second attempt had only increased Mr. Howard’s agitation; but hastily brushing his hand across his eyes, he said, in a steady and even cheerful voice, “No more at present, my sweet child; but now every day you shall sing to your papa as usual, and cheer him as you have ever done; but what does Amy want?—this is the second time she has looked into the room.”
“Oh, I know,” Leila answered. “Yes, Amy, I am coming presently—I know, papa, what she wants; at this hour she always takes me to visit my pets, and they are getting quite fond of me again, which makes me so happy. At first they did not like me so much, because I was blind; they fluttered about, and seemed afraid of me—not Dash nor Selina, they were always kind; Selina seems getting quite young again, for she frisks about me always, jumps up when I am passing by, and purs so loud, that I am afraid she will make herself quite hoarse; and as to Dash, you don’t know what a dog he is—wherever I am now, he lies outside the door, and the moment I go out he follows; he does not think it is enough that I should be alone with Amy, and looks at her she says quite suspiciously;—when you are there he does not follow me quite so close, but when I am alone with her he is touching me the whole time. Yesterday he pulled me aside by my dress; Amy said it was because there was a stone in my path, and he was afraid I might strike my foot against it; and another day he seized a large branch of a tree in his mouth, (which had fallen down,) and threw it aside with such indignation, and looked at her quite angrily, as if she were leading me into danger. Poor Dash, he does not know how very kind Amy is to me, papa; I cannot persuade her yet to return to her own room at night; she still lies on that little hard mattress at the foot of my bed, and when I tell her not to do it, it makes her sorry.”
“Yes, my child, I know she does; and I am sure she prefers doing so.”
“I think so too, papa, and for many days I am sure she never slept, for always when I awoke I found her standing by my bed, ready to give me my lemonade, or to rub my feet, or do whatever I wished, to make me sleep again. Papa, if this trial had not come to me, I never should have known the love that is in many hearts for me; I cannot speak about Selina, I cannot tell you what she is to me; and Matilda, so gentle to me and so kind; and Mrs. Roberts also; then Mrs. Herbert, Charles, and Mina; but it would take me all the day to tell you of all the kindnesses to me,—and I am forgetting that Amy is waiting, for I could chat away with you, papa, for ever; but now I must go and chat a little to my parrots, or they will be quite jealous. And then Amy has to give me my lesson of flowers; she is teaching me to know them all by the touch, for you know it is better to be prepared for what may be. I hope you are not looking melancholy because I am saying this. Good-bye, dear papa.” She was gone, or a long and deep-drawn sigh would have reached her ear.
Weeks and months passed on, and though Leila had no fixed complaint, her health was not what it had been before, and the prospect of her recovering her sight seemed gradually to be becoming more uncertain. It was well for her, dear child, that she could not see the mournful looks with which her papa often now regarded her, as she, with increased anxiety to acquire habits of independence, performed her daily duties.
It was evident that Leila was preparing her mind to meet, not only with resignation, but with cheerfulness, what but a few short months before would have weighed her to the ground. How deeply had she felt poor Susan’s state; how often had she looked at the sightless eyes of the blind girl, and said to herself, “How can she bear it? O any trial but this!” And this trial was now hers; it came upon her in a moment. Suddenly was the whole face of nature shut out from her sight; yet, after the first natural anguish was over, there came also to her young heart that faith, that reliance, which shed peace and light on her darkest moments.
Her little scholars now came to her as usual; they daily read the Bible to her, and also other books suited to their age, and in this occupation she took much interest. Susan also came frequently, and either Selina or Matilda read to her while Leila listened.